


Salt The Earth

by fluttermoth



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Crossover, Dark Solas, Implied Relationships, Language Barrier, Mild Language, Multi, Murder Happy Dragonborn, The Listener brings out the worst in Fen'Harel, Undecided Relationship(s)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-30
Updated: 2018-03-01
Packaged: 2018-12-21 21:32:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 31,834
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11953053
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fluttermoth/pseuds/fluttermoth
Summary: The Divine is dead, the Chantry is in shambles, and there's a giant hole in the sky. There is fighting among the Templars, the mages, and of course, the politicians. The seeds of chaos have taken root, and the people of Thedas are crying out for a hero— but they get a killer instead.The Listener of the Dark Brotherhood is sent to Thedas. Things go about as poorly as one might expect.A Skyrim/Dragon Age Crossover





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ages ago, I started working on a crossover for Skyrim and Dragon Age. The fic was meant to be drabbles, so when a tiny sliver of a plot began to form, I found that I had written myself into a corner. So this is my attempt to start again. This fic will likely be long, violent, and full of dirty words because the Listener is a potty mouth. I will place a warning at the beginning of chapters if they contain anything explicit. But so far, I'm not planning anything too hair-raising (or toe-curling.)

The Listener’s footsteps come softer than snowfall as she steps into the College of Winterhold’s grand foyer. Her closest companions flank her; Cicero skulks at her side, close enough for their arms to touch, while Luka and Arnbjorn follow a respectable distance behind.

She’s been here before. Ages ago, when she had to break in and raid the library for information on the Elder Scrolls, she took care of the resident Thalmor just because she wanted to see the haughty bastard squirm. The thought of his death fills her with a familiar feeling of hunger and giddy malice, and she finds herself hoping the College has acquired yet another Thalmor advisor for her to play with.

A Breton woman approaches her, pulling her from her fantasy. She is lovely, despite the lines of worry creasing her brow. “Are you her?” she asks, warily eyeing Lumen’s Daedric armor. “Are you the Dragonborn?”

“Unfortunately,” Lumen says, but the sight of the woman’s perturbed expression prompts her to add, “yes, I’m the Dragonborn.”

The woman seems pleased with that, and she offers Lumen her hand. “My name is Mirabelle Ervine. Thank you for coming at such short notice, I’m sure you’re wondering why I invited you here.”

“Lumen,” she says, grasping the woman’s hand. “And I think I may know why— your magic has gone wonky, hasn’t it?”

Mirabelle purses her lips, clearly unimpressed with Lumen’s terminology. “It has become unpredictable and discordant, yes. There’s more I must tell you, but I wonder— are you a mage? I’ve heard many stories about you, but none mention any magical abilities beyond Shouting.”

“No, but my friend is.” She motions to Luka. The tall, skinny Nord tries to vanish within the folds of his cloak. After being expelled from the College on charges of necromancy and murder, he’s done his best to avoid any trips there. “Magic is not my strong point.”

“Magical ability or no, I think you can help us.” Mirabelle motions for them to follow her. “Come, we need to go down to the shore. The fastest way is through the Midden.”

They follow Mirabelle through the long, winding hallways of stone. Small orbs of light dance above them, lighting the way. A few curious students stop to stare at the infamous Dragonborn and her companions. The hum of excited whispers follows in their wake as they breeze through the College and step into the Midden.

“I don’t mean to be _rude_ ,” Lumen begins, striving to keep her temper in check. “But I would like to know why you asked me here. You’re not the only person in Skyrim who needs my assistance.” Which is a fact that annoys her to no end. She had hoped she could shed the mantle of Dragonborn once Alduin was dead, but she’s had no such luck. Tales of her ‘heroism’ have spread, and now everyone needs the Dragonborn’s assistance for one reason or another. She ignores most of the pleas, but Luka had urged her to assist the college. _“Something is wrong with my magic!”_ he had cried. _“This might be the only way to find out what’s going on!”_ And then he had the audacity to make puppy eyes at her, and she had no choice but to comply. The Listener does not have many weaknesses, but puppy dog eyes would be one of them.

“An anomaly appeared above the ice fields just a week ago,” Mirabelle explains. “Exactly when everyone’s magic started behaving strangely. I believe these two events are connected. I gathered by best mages to study the anomaly, but— there was a problem.” Mirabelle stops by an old oak and iron door, her hand resting on the handle. “The Thalmor have noticed the anomaly as well.”

“Of course they have,” Lumen sighs.

“I asked you here because you have no political allegiances, although rumors suggest you have sided with the Stormcloaks. But I find it hard to believe that a Bosmer would throw in her lot with the likes of them.” The Breton’s eyes dart around nervously as if she is expecting eavesdroppers. “If you could— get rid of the Thalmor forces guarding the anomaly, I would be forever in your debt.”

Cicero giggles. “Most people contact the Dark Brotherhood when there's killing to be done.”

“I’m not asking you to kill them,” she snaps. “But if it comes to that, so be it. The anomaly is a volatile construct. Sometimes it is dormant, and other times it spews a strange energy. But whatever it is, it is _dangerous_ , and I dread to think what the Dominion might do if they learn to control this thing.”

“So you want me to get rid of the Thalmor so you and your mages can study this thing?” Lumen grins, giddy at the opportunity to shed some Thalmor blood. “Can _you_ be trusted with this anomaly?”

Mirabelle scoffs. “I haven’t condemned an entire religion and started a war.”

“That’s a fair point,” Lumen concedes. “But why are you asking me to do this? Why not your jarl?”

“We did ask him. Jarl Korir claimed he wanted to send his men after the Thalmor, but Ulfric ordered Korir to stand down, fearing this confrontation may escalate into all-out war. There have been tentative peace talks between the Stormcloaks and the Empire, as you know. I would guess Ulfric doesn’t want to end the war with the Empire only to begin one with the Dominion.”

“He may, yet. The Aldmeri Dominion won’t accept any agreement between the Empire and Skyrim as long as Talos worship is still a thing.”

“All the more reason to keep this strange power out of the Thalmor’s grasp.” The mage wrings her hands together nervously. “I can pay you— for this service and your discretion.”

“How many soldiers are down there?” Lumen asks, her mind already working on the logistics of the battle to come.

“It’s a group of about five or so. It’s not a large group, but it’s more than what my students and colleagues can handle. We’re academics, not battle mages.”

Lumen glances over her shoulder at her companions. Luka is doing his level best to become one with this cloak, but Arnbjorn and Cicero are eagerly waiting for her command. “What do you say? Are you boys ready for a fight?”

Arnbjorn smiles, his teeth flashing in the darkness. “Shouldn’t we try diplomacy first?”

“Kinda hard to have a polite conversation with anyone who considers you a lesser being.” Lumen smirks at him before she turns back to Mirabelle. “This won’t take long.”

“I suspect not,” she says, the faintest of grins playing on her lips as she studies the men at Lumen’s back. “Good luck, Dragonborn. I will wait here for your return.”

* * *

The four assassins make their way toward the shore, the snow crumbling soundlessly beneath their enchanted boots. They do not have to travel far to find the Thalmor, or the anomaly Mirabelle told them about. A strange green light glimmers above the frozen water, casting an eerie undersea glow across the ice. Even stranger, there are tiny rocks float upward toward the light, as if it is trying to draw them in.

“Oh, that _is_ weird,” Luka whispers. “It looks like a portal of some sort, but—”

“Come on,” Lumen hisses. “You can gawk at it as long as you like once those Thalmor are dead.”

Arnbjorn rushes ahead, his axe in his hands and his teeth clenched in a feral grin. Luka is right behind him, and Cicero darts around the small camp, hoping to remain unseen long enough to launch a surprise attack. Despite her excitement, Lumen hesitates for a heartbeat. Altmer are her favorite prey. But there is something about the Thalmor’s solemn, black robes that still frighten her— will _always_ frighten her.

 _“I am the Night Mother’s daughter,”_ she tells herself. _“And I will not be afraid.”_

She charges into the fray, her Daedric daggers in her hands. The air is charged and smells of ozone thanks to the discharge of a dozen spells. One by one, the Thalmor fall. Arnbjorn cleaves a guard in two with his giant axe, Cicero’s daggers are quick and deadly, cutting through flesh as easily as a knife cuts through butter, and Luka cackles as he calls lightning forth from a clear sky and incinerates a charging justiciar. Lumen chases down a guard who thought to run, but he doesn’t get far. He dies with a dagger in his kidney and a blade opening his throat.

The silence that follows the battle is deafening. There is only the gentle lapping of the sea, and the hiss of blood melting through the snow. A coppery scent fills the air, and Lumen breathes in deep as she offers a silent prayer to Sithis. She may have killed these Thalmor as the Dragonborn, but the Listener would be remiss if she didn’t offer their souls to the Dread Lord.

Once her offerings are made, she scans the camp to check on her companions. Cicero and Arnbjorn are cleaning their blades, while Luka stands on the shore, staring up at the strange, green light. It looks as if someone cut through the very air itself. The light is a long, thin tear just dangling in the air a few feet above Luka’s head. Small rocks and bits of ice circle it, and wisps of energy whirl around it. The air feels strange here; magically charged and so very _wrong_.

“Well, that looks bad— whatever it is.” Lumen makes her way across the camp, careful not to trip over the dead bodies. “Any ideas?”

Luka turns away from the tear. “Remember when I said my magic felt strange? This is the cause. It seems like my link to Aetherius has become disrupted somehow. I can still call forth my magic, but it’s not as strong as it usually is.”

“This might be a dumb question, but where does your magic come from?”

“Magic flows to Nirn through little tears in the veil of Oblivion; Magnus and the stars. There is no limit as to how much magic one may draw on. The only limitation is our physiology, which is why elves tend to be better casters than humans—”

“Except for Lumen!” Cicero adds with a cackle.

Lumen grits her teeth, but she does her best to ignore Cicero. “Please continue, Luka.”

“Well, as of right now there seems to be a limitation which was not there before, and I think this anomaly has something to do with it.”

“Is it like the Time Wound?” She narrows her eyes at the light. “It looks similar enough.”

“I don’t think so,” he says, turning back to look at the light undulating in the air. “It’s a shame you didn’t bring your Elder Scroll. Perhaps that is what is needed to fix it... or make it worse.”

Her stomach tightens at the mere thought of reading that scroll again. “So what is it?”

“Like I said, it’s not like the Time Wound. There, you could only see into the past with the help of the Elder Scroll. But this looks— it _feels_ like something more. Like a portal. But I can’t even wager a guess as to where it will lead or why it’s altering my magic. It is likely a realm of Oblivion, but I do not know which one.”

Feeling suddenly reckless, Lumen says, “Let’s throw something into it.”

“What?” Luka looks incredulous for a moment, but then— “Oh, that’s a fantastic idea!”

“No,” Arnbjorn says. “No it is _not_. Leave the damn thing alone.”

“Cicero must agree,” he says, the manic trilling fading away into concern. “It is not wise to go around tossing things into unknown realms. You never know what might come out!”

“Cicero has a point,” Luka says, chewing on his lip for a moment. “Oh, I know! You should try Shouting at it!”

Lumen purses her lips in thought. It is reckless, yes— but it’s not a terrible idea. Which Shout to use, though? Unrelenting Force probably won’t do anything but attract ice wolves, and Fire Breath will be just as useless. “I’m not sure if there is a Shout that will have any effect on this thing,” she says. “None that I know.”

“Make one up? If the Tongues could create a Shout to bring down Alduin, then surely the Dragonborn of this era can create her own Shouts, too!”

“Cicero would appreciate it if Luka would stop filling the Listener’s head with bad ideas!”

“Our job is done,” Arnbjorn adds, siding with Cicero. “The Thalmor are dead, let’s go collect our payment and go home. Let the mages deal with this thing.”

“Look, I don’t want to make this my problem, but I can’t just walk away. Daedra have tried to break into Mundus before, and I can’t just ignore it if it’s happening again. If any god or spirit is going to destroy the world, then it will be by Sithis’ command. Not become some Daedric Prince decided they were bored!”

“What if you’re wrong?” Arnbjorn asks, his eyes flicking to the anomaly then back to her. “What if this doesn’t lead to a realm of Oblivion?”

“Maybe nothing will happen,” she says, shrugging. “Or we all die horribly. One or the other.”

“Thanks, tidbit. I feel so much better now.” he sighs, resigned to his task of protecting the foolish elf from herself. _Again_. “All right. Go for it. I suppose if this goes badly I’ll be too dead to care.”

Lumen grins. “That’s the spirit!”

“Be wary,” Luka says, calling fire to his hands. “We don’t know what will happen when Miss Lumen Shouts at it. It may close, or the Daedra might take offense and come for a fight.”

Arnbjorn reaches for his axe. “So are we preventing an Oblivion crisis or starting one?”

“We shall find out soon enough.” Cicero reaches for his daggers, willing to fight even though he thinks this is a doomed venture. “As much as Cicero hates to admit it, this problem will not go away on its own. But Cicero gladly helped his sweet Listener defeat Alduin, and he will help again with whatever this is! He just hopes it will be resolved quickly! Mother needs tending…”

“Okay, we’re ready!” Arnbjorn shouts, cutting Cicero off before he goes into a lengthy description of exactly what he needs to do for the Night Mother. He has come to respect the Night Mother and the old ways— and Cicero, to an extent. But he’d rather not endure a detailed account on the trials of corpse care.

A bitter wind chafes at her skin, but she pays it little mind. She focuses on the words and the power that live within her. _“I know the word for destroy, and sky, but what do I call this thing? Is it a tear or a doorway? Does it matter?”_ She can feel each and every stolen dragon soul surging through her body as she reaches for the _Thu’um_.

**_“Al Lok Vaaz!”_ **

The _Thu’um_ wavers in the midst of her self-doubt. Small, hairline cracks form in the ice beneath their feet as the Shout ripples through the air. The tear in the sky sputters, spewing forth what looks to be dripping, green light, but it fizzles and vaporizes upon hitting the water. A strange, shrieking issues forth from the tear, but it does not vanish as she hoped it would.

A muscle in Lumen’s jaw twitches as she grits her teeth. The Voice is a manifestation of her will, not unlike Luka’s magic, and it will not work if she doubts herself. This is no time for uncertainty. If this is a portal to Oblivion, and another Oblivion Crisis is on the horizon, then she must not lose her nerve. She killed Alduin, not because he threatened all of existence, but because he threatened _her_ world; the Night Mother, the Brotherhood, and Cicero. No Aedra or Daedra or anything in-between will take away the things she loves, and so she puts all her rage and all her love into this Shout, prepared to rend the heavens in two if it comes to that!

**_“Al Lok Vaaz!”_ **

The sheer force of the _Thu’um_ rips the air from her lungs and burns her throat. The ice beneath her feet cracks and splits apart, but she has no time to react, or to _run_ — because a blinding, white light engulfs her. She realizes, distantly, that she can hear screaming and shouting. As if a battle is raging all around her, and she could see it if her vision hadn’t gone so blurry—

Within the span of one breath to the next, everything fades to black, and the Last Dragonborn knows no more.

* * *

Mirabelle Ervine stands in the knee-deep snow, gaping at the now empty shoreline. One moment, the Dragonborn is Shouting at the anomaly, and the next, she and her companions are _gone_. There are no bodies left behind, save for those of the fallen Thalmor. Mirabelle can only assume the Dragonborn, and her companions were drawn into the anomaly.

“So it’s a portal, then,” Savos Aren says, unaffected by what just happened. “I figured as much.”

“Of course it’s a portal,” Mirabelle snaps. “I only wanted the Dragonborn to deal with the Thalmor! I didn’t think she’d be so brash— so foolish—”

“Calm yourself, Mirabelle.” He places his hand on her shoulder. “The Nords claim she chased Alduin to Sovngarde and defeated him there. Perhaps she can sort this out, too.”

“Don’t tell me you believe that nonsense,” she snaps, momentarily forgetting who she’s talking to. “It just seems so outrageous.”

“My dear, Mirabelle,” Savos chuckles, a glint of mischief in his eyes. “You are a mage. You can draw power from Aetherius and manifest it physically, and you doubt this? Did you, or did you not just witness the Dragonborn using the Voice?”

She sighs, feeling admonished. “You know what I mean. A hero defeating an evil dragon in Sovngarde — of all places — just sounds like something out of a silly, Nordic legend.”

“Just as there is a glimmer of truth in every lie, there is truth to legends as well.” The corners of his eyes wrinkle as he smiles indulgently at her. “Stranger things have happened, and I wouldn’t be so quick to dismiss her. There have been fewer dragon attacks, and I believe that is her doing. If anyone can walk through Oblivion and live, it’s the Dragonborn.”

“May the Divine’s watch over her— wherever she is,” Mirabelle sighs, briefly glancing at the snow collecting the sleeves of her robe. “I’ll ask Jarl Korir to assign some guards to watch the anomaly once we clear the bodies away. Someone should be here to greet the Dragonborn if— _when_ she returns.”

“He’s going to ask what happened to the Thalmor,” he says, scanning the bodies scattered around in the snow. “Do you think he would believe us if we told him the Dragonborn asked them to leave, and they did?”

“No,” she laughs. “But that’s what I’ll tell him.”

Savos nods. “We should write to every court mage in Skyrim. This may not be the only anomaly, and if there are others, they should be guarded.”

“Oh, Savos—” Mirabelle presses her hand to her chest, her good humor fading. “Could this be the beginning of the end? Could it be another Oblivion crisis?”

“I hope not.” His crimson eyes reflect the eerie green glow of the anomaly, but he quickly tears them away, fearing to look upon it for too long. “Come inside, Mirabelle. Drevis and I will take care of the bodies.”

“All right,” she says, casting one last look at the light before following the Arch Mage back to the college. _“Good luck, Dragonborn. I hope what they say about you is true, for all our sakes.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Al, Lok, Vaaz translates to Destroy, Sky, Tear. Talk about a problematic Shout. Way to go, Lumen.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Tamrielic you see in this fic is a mixture of borrowed words, Ayleidoon and gibberish. I considered using Norse or something similar, but I figured I would butcher it. However, making up a language ended up being kinda fun. :D Translations are at the end.

The Breach casts a sickly, green light across the small village of Haven. Rocks and debris orbit around it, and if one looks long enough, one can see the unfortunate dead caught within the rotating debris. Wailing hangs in the air like a persistent fog. The people of Haven mourn their dead, their Divine, and their world. Many are saying it is the end, but Solas is not ready to give up so soon.

Many apostates have fled, fearing a mass annulment. Rather than run, Solas offered his services to the Seeker. Aiding what’s left of the Conclave is the only way he can find out what happened and fix this mess. But until he can, he throws himself into healing the wounded.

The humans in charge asked him to aid the local apothecary, and when he is not healing wounds and setting bones, he is mixing potions. No one dares to speak to him. He is an apostate and an elf, and the people of Haven are wary. But despite the bitter mountain wind and the suspicious stares, he chooses to work beyond the walls of the apothecary’s workshop. Being closed in never suited him.

A rare burst of sunlight warms his back as he curls over a workbench. The bitter tang of elfroot coats his mouth as he crushes healing herbs with a mortar and pestle. His ears twitch when he hears the sound of approaching footsteps, but he does not look up until the shadow of the Seeker has fallen across him.

“Solas,” she says by way of greeting. “What do you know about the Fade?”

“More than most, I’d wager,” he says, setting his work down and dusting the herbs from his hands. “How can I help you, Cassandra?”

“We captured the people who did this,” she says, casting a wary glance to the Breach. Worry does not suit her, and it makes Solas uneasy. “And we could use your help.”

“They’re alive?” Solas asks, not bothering to keep the incredulity from his voice. No one could survive that kind of explosion, and no mage could expel that much power and live to tell the tale.

“For now.” She turns, motioning for him to follow her. “They— well, they stepped out of the Fade. One of them is in possession of a strange magic. I believe she could be responsible for creating the Breach, or at least know who is. But she is not doing well, and I worry the magic may kill her before we get any real answers.”

“What about the others?” he asks, his mind whirling with questions. “Have they said anything?”

“There was a man with her, but he is still unconscious.”

His fingers curl around his amulet, the teeth press hard against the flesh of his palm, keeping him grounded in the present. “Is he in possession of this strange magic as well?”

Cassandra rests her hand on the pommel of her sword. That simple action betrays her calm facade. She is shaken to her very core, but she is fighting valiantly against the fear trying to take root. “Not that I have noticed,” she says stiffly. 

No words pass between them as they step into the Chantry’s seldom used dungeon. Solas glances at the prisoner in the first cell. An unconscious man is curled up on the floor. His hands and feet are bound, but he does not appear to be injured. Two guards — Templars — are guarding the cell. The man inside is a mage, then. That alone is enough to prove his guilt, even if he is innocent.

A pointed cough from Cassandra puts his curiosity in check, and he follows her to a cell at the far end of the dungeon. He reluctantly leaves his staff with one of the guards flanking the cell, and steps inside.

Solas’ breath catches in his throat when he lays eyes on the prisoner. This is no ordinary elf, of that, he is certain. Even in her prone state, he can tell she is as tall as he is. The angles of her face and the slant of her eyes take him back to a time before the Veil. She possesses the ancient countenance of the elves of Arlathan— but that makes no sense at all. Some Sentinels yet live, _somewhere_ , but she bears no markings that would identify her as such.

When he overcomes his initial surprise, he tries to get a feel for her general health. Despite her current condition, the elf is healthy and strong. She has tan skin that would be much darker if she spent more time in the sun, and her auburn hair is healthy, albeit dry— possibly from living in a cold climate. There are little scars all along the edges of her hands from fighting with daggers, but the ignorant will accuse her of being a blood mage if they catch sight of them. 

The Seeker carefully observes his cursory inspection of the prisoner. “There was a group of city elves that came to the Conclave, do you think she is one of them?”

“No,” Solas says, biting back a mirthless laugh. He doubts this elf would cower as the city elves do. “And she is not Dalish.”

“There were no Dalish at the Conclave.”

The smallest of grins tugs at his lips. “Just because you didn’t see the Dalish, does not mean they weren’t there. They are experts at remaining hidden.”

“I suppose—” Whatever response she has is cut off when the mark flares and the prisoner cries out in pain. “Can you help her?”

“I do not know how long this will take. This magic is unlike anything I have ever encountered.” The magic seething beneath the prisoner’s skin mocks his lie, because it is _his magic_ thrashing within her body, longing to be free of its mortal confines. “But I know time is of the essence. I will try to work quickly.”

“I will ask Adan to help you,” Cassandra says. “Is there anything else you might need?”

“No,” he says, not bothering to look at her. “Thank you, Cassandra.”

* * *

Solas works for hours, doing what he can to tame the eldritch magic within the elf. Adan, the apothecary, brings herbs, water, and lyrium to aid with the process. The elf does not need healing in the traditional sense, but he does not tell the human, and he welcomes the lyrium potions when he stretches his magic to the limit.

Hours pass, and he has managed to tame the magic somewhat. He has localized it to the point of origin— her palm. When it flares up in protest, he wraps his hand around hers, keeping it at bay. He tastes the darker side of the magic he has unwittingly set in motion. Death and despair rage on both sides of the Veil, and there is nothing he can do but _wait_ until this elf wakes. That mark is the key— and they need her. He will not allow her to die.

_“An gris,”_ the prisoner murmurs. _“Nim ilpen auga i’an gris.”_

“I don’t know if that’s encouraging or not.” Adan lays a cold cloth across the prisoner's forehead. “Is that Elven?”

Solas covers his laugh with a cough, waving the healer off when he offers him some water. “No,” he says, curiosity overriding his bitter mirth. “It is not Elven. I don’t know this language.” There might be a way to break through this language barrier, but he needs to spend some time in the Fade in order to do so. Cassandra and the others will not be pleased when they discover they cannot communicate with the prisoner, and there may be little Solas can do to stop them from executing her on principle.

_“Lustandi?”_

“I believe her companion awake. It might be worthwhile to attempt to communicate with him.” Solas stands slowly, his knees cramping from kneeling for so long. He leaves the prisoner and Adan behind and makes his way to the other cell, careful to avoid the gazes of the guards. They may not wear Templar armor, but he can smell the lyrium on their breath and in their sweat.

The mage is leaning against the bars of the cell door. He is young, no more than twenty or so. But he is aged by his one blind eye, and the scar etched across his brow and cheekbone. He is watching Solas with his good eye, which is a crystalline blue. Even half blind, staring into his eyes is like staring into the eyes of a wolf. There is nothing there but a cold, murderous intent.

_“Man sun ni?”_

“I cannot understand you,” he says gently. “Do you speak the common tongue?”

The mage tilts his head, his blond hair falling into his eyes. _“A bej’mos virsten ni.”_

“I’ll take that as a no,” Solas sighs.

_“Verth est Lumen?”_ He asks, determined not to let a little thing like a language barrier get in the way. _“Siya est Bosmer.”_ The mage punctuates his sentence by motioning toward his ears, then pointing to Solas’.

Solas smiles at the mage and motions to the cell at the end of the corridor. He tries to communicate further that she is asleep and unharmed. But there is only so much he can convey with his hands. The mage seems somewhat mollified, but it does not last for long because a shriek comes from the cell and Adan calls for Solas’ aid.

_“Hva hafa ni stani til siya?”_ The mage snarls, his youthful features twisting into something vicious. _“A liebal morde ni!”_

“Calm yourself,” Solas urges, not wishing to see the young man harmed. “You must calm down!”

Even if the mage could understand him, Solas does not think he could reason with him. With his hands bound, the mage is still able to summon a spell. Fire blazes to life in his hands, incinerating the ropes around his wrists, but the Templars are there before he can turn his magic on Solas. The Smite hits the mage hard, and he crumples to the ground with a cry. It is not a cry of pain, but one of sorrow. This must be the first time he’s ever felt his magic torn away, and to a mage, it is one of the worst feelings in the world.

A guard snarls at Solas. “Back away, _mage_.”

The chill of the Templar’s Smite hangs heavy in the air. Solas wisely backs away from the cell and returns to the elf’s side. There is little he can do for the young man except keep his friend alive and try to find a way to communicate.

“The dreams seem to be getting worse. I can barely keep her on the cot. Also, her fever is spiking. We need to get this armor off.”

Solas helps him strip off the top half of the prisoner's gear, leaving her in a breast band and leather breeches. They both stare at the three, long, poorly healed scars crossing her chest and torso. But the scars are quickly hidden from view when Adan begins to place cold rags across her chest and arms.

“This should help,” Adan says. “But she’ll need more healing magic to get that fever down.”

“I’ll do what I can,” Solas says, a ripple of pain coursing through him as he reaches for his already depleted magic stores. It is frustrating to already be at his limit. In his prime, he would have been able to pull this girl from her nightmares within seconds. But now it’s taking everything he has just to keep her alive, and he doesn’t know if he will be able to manage that.

“Do you think she did it?” Adan presses a lyrium potion in Solas’ free hand. “Do you think she killed the Divine and tore a hole in the sky?”

“I find it hard to believe that anyone of this age could do such a thing,” he answers distractedly. “The amount of magic expelled would likely kill whoever cast it.”

“What is she, then? An innocent bystander?”

Solas casts a look to the table where the prisoner’s effects are stored. Her armor and weapons are as black as the Void and thrumming with an ancient, unknown energy. No one who wore armor like _that_ and wielded knives like _those_ could be an innocent. But one thing is certain— she did not cause the Breach.

A bead of sweat runs down his neck. “I cannot say. But if we are to have any hope of closing the Breach, we need her to live.”

* * *

By nightfall, the prisoner’s fever is manageable. Adan offers to take the first watch and suggests Solas catch a few hours of sleep while he can.

He finds a secluded spot outside the Chantry, just near a thatch of trees. Wrapping a fur cloak around his shoulders, he sinks down to the ground, leaning against the tree trunk for support. He focuses on the sound of his heartbeat, slows his breathing, and quickly slips into the Fade. He has heard of spells that can be used to break through language barriers, but it is old, magic. Long forgotten by the mages of Thedas. Luckily for the prisoner, nothing is ever truly forgotten in the Fade if one only knows where to look.

Many of his friends have been scared away by the Breach, save for one. Wisdom does not know the spell he seeks, but they think they can help. Even now, with the Fade in shambles, his friend offers guidance. Wisdom leads him to Courage, and Courage brings Understanding. Together, they provide him with everything he needs in order to cast the spell. The Seeker will have his head if she catches him performing it. But if they are to have any hope of sealing the Breach, he must take the chance.

Solas enters the waking world a few hours later, and he makes quick work of gathering the materials needed for the spell. The ingredients are simple; a pinch of soil, a few grains of salt, and a drop of blood. But the words and the motions are anything but, and he will need privacy to work this magic.

The mood in the dungeon feels heavier than before. The remnants of the Templar’s Smite lingers in the air, and while the mage has not fully recovered, he has pulled himself together. He is sitting in the middle of his cell, his legs folded beneath him and his hands resting in his lap. While his posture is calm, the look he gives Solas is nothing short of murderous.

“Ah, you’re back.” Adan steps out of the cell, wiping sweat from his brow. “She’s been talking in her sleep, but Void if I know what she’s saying.”

“Get some rest,” Solas says as he walks past him. “I’ll keep an eye on her.” 

The prisoner is curled on her side, clutching her marked hand to her chest. It pains her, but Solas has done all he can to tame the magic. He arranges himself so that his back is to the door. His movements are silent and swift as he places a small, wooden bowl on the ground and begins to mix the ingredients. The guards pay him no mind; the healing of a prisoner is of no interest them. He hopes they remain disinterested because if they caught him, he would be labeled a maleficar and made Tranquil on the spot. _“It is worth the risk,”_ he assures himself and presses the tip of a small, sharp knife against his index finger.

“Solas?”

The blood freezes in his veins. “Leliana,” he says tersely. He’d been so wrapped up in the spell, he failed to notice the arrival of the Spymaster. To be fair, she can sneak up on _anyone_. But it is a severe failing on his part if he cannot notice a _human_ approaching him.

Her eyes drift across the prone form of the prisoner, then to him, then to the blood dripping down the blade of the knife. He is both hot and cold at once. There is no way he can talk his way out of this. He will have to fight—

“Leave us,” she says, and the guards are quick to obey her command. She does not speak again until the clattering of armor has faded away. “What are you doing?”

“The prisoners do not speak the common tongue. This spell should help us to understand one another,” he says, seeing no reason to lie at this juncture. “It is ancient magic.”

She leans against the doorframe. “Will it work?”

The question comes as a surprise, but her curiosity is not unwelcome. “I believe so.”

“Will it harm the prisoner?”

“She may not like the taste, but she will come to no harm.” He presses his fingers into the bowl, mixing his blood with the soil and salt. “You surprise me. Most people react poorly when they catch a mage using blood for a spell.”

A faint smile tugs at the corner of her mouth. “I am not like most people,” she says. “I have known mages, and I have known maleficars— and you are no maleficar. One drop of blood is not going to rend the Veil and turn you into an abomination, is it?”

Solas breathes a soft, tired laugh. “No, it is not.”

“You should work quickly,” she says, turning to leave. “Cassandra will not be as tolerant as I.”

That might be the understatement of the century, and Solas heeds her warning. Once the ingredients congeal into a paste, he begins chanting the spell. The ancient, lilting words flow smoothly from his tongue, and the paste liquefies as the spell takes hold.

The components seem simple enough until one considers their meaning; soil to link her to the local land, salt for conductivity, and blood to carry the caster’s offering of knowledge. While the spell will not harm the prisoner, it could do irrevocable damage to him. Blood can transfer so many things; knowledge, dreams, and memories, and Solas guards his memories fiercely. But, _a drop—_ there should be no harm in just one drop. Within it, he shares his knowledge of the language and nothing more.

Carefully, he slides a hand along the back of the prisoner’s head, lifting her just enough so that he may administer the potion without choking her. A taste is all she needs, but he will not know if it works until she wakes— unless he can convince the young mage to try it.

He moves quickly, hoping to convince the mage to try the potion before the guards or Cassandra return. The mage glares at him when he approaches his cell, but he does not bark any threats. Solas will take that as a good sign.

“Here,” he says, holding up a vial of lyrium. When the mage makes no move to accept it, Solas takes a sip before passing it through the bars. “It’s not poison, I swear.”

_“Hva est sja?”_ The mage brings the vial to his nose, his brow furrowing at the scent. He is not a skittish thing, and Solas is glad of it. _“Nautt Madr frelsa an,”_ he says, throwing back the lyrium as one would a shot of strong liquor. A sigh escapes him when the lyrium takes effect, bringing back the magic that had been banished by the Templars.

With trust established, Solas holds the bowl through the bars. “Please,” he pleads. “Quickly.”

The mage’s mouth thins a bit when he looks at the contents of the bowl, but he shrugs and takes it from Solas. He heaves an exasperated sigh and mutters something to himself before bringing the bowl to his lips. Upon the first taste, his eyes fix on Solas, and narrow. Slowly, he lowers the bowl and places it on the floor before bringing his shaking hands to his lap.

“Please tell me that worked,” Solas sighs.

“It… worked.” The mage’s accent is thick — the W's sound more like V's — but at least they can understand each other now. There will be words that don’t translate, but such is the case with all languages. “How did— oh, nevermind, I don’t care. _Where_ is Lumen?”

“I assume Lumen is your elven friend,” he says, and the young man nods. “She is asleep in another cell.”

“This is fascinating,” he gasps. “One minute you’re speaking gibberish and the next—” The mage shakes his head, getting back on track. “What happened to her? Is she okay? I need to see her!”

“I can’t take you to see her. I don’t have that authority. But she is stable.” Solas pauses for a moment to listen for approaching guards. “What is your name?”

“Luka,” he says quickly. “We had others with us. Two men. One is very tall with lots of hair, and the other is a jester. You can’t miss them.”

“I haven’t seen anyone fitting that description.”

“They’ll turn up,” Luka says, grabbing the bowl and handing it back to Solas. “Here. I’d rather not give those guards another reason to attack me. I don't know what they did to me, but it was dreadful.”

“It’s called a Smite,” he explains, assuming the boy is just an apostate from a foreign land. Perhaps somewhere far from the Chantry’s reach. “The Templar’s can temporarily dampen your magical abilities with it.”

“That’s terrible,” Luka gasps, giving in to a shudder. “What kind of sadists would condone such a practice?”

A bitter smirk tugs at his lips. “The Chantry.”

“I’ve never heard of them, but I don’t think I like them much.”

Solas looks down at the bowl in his hands then back to the mage. “I should tell you— there was an explosion. It leveled a temple and killed hundreds. Many blame you and your friend for this attack. Witnesses claim they say you both step out of the Fade, right in the middle of the now leveled temple. The friends you mentioned could be dead, and I do not know if Lumen will wake.”

“Well you’re just a ray of sunshine aren’t you?” he snarls, folding his arms tightly across his chest. “Lumen _will_ wake and they _will_ turn up. As for the Fade— I don’t know what that is.”

It takes Solas a moment to find his voice. “You are a mage. How can you not know what the Fade is?”

“I imagine there are a lot of things I don't know," he snaps. "Where am I, by the way?”

“You are in the village of Haven, which is in the kingdom of Ferelden.”

Luka purses his lips in thought. “I’ve never heard of these places. _Sithis_ … I wonder if that portal didn’t lead to Oblivion, but to another place and time—” He lapses into his native tongue as he babbles to himself, but he returns his attention to Solas. “Do you have a name for this land? Not Ferelden— but where Ferelden exists.”

“Thedas,” Solas says without further explanation. The possibility of these two being from an unknown continent — or world — is too much to consider at the moment. He will think on it after they close the Breach “I would advise you to keep quiet until I’ve had a chance to explain to the Seeker why we can suddenly understand each other.”

“Why?” Luka asks, tucking his hands into his oversized sleeves. “You made a potion. There’s nothing abnormal about that.”

“It has blood in it.”

“Yes, and?” The mage looks at him as if he has lost his senses. “Many potions call for it. Blood is quite powerful.”

“And here in Thedas, mixing blood and magic is expressly forbidden.” After a moment of consideration, Solas adds, “Magic is widely feared here.”

Luka runs a hand over his face and mutters a string of vile curses. “Oh, good. You know, I tried to assume the best when I got sucked into that portal. I hoped I might have an incredible adventure, but instead I end up in some backwater where people will scream ‘witch’ if I so much as ice a glass of water. Wonderful. Great. _Peachy_. I hope I wake up soon. This is awful.”

“I must return to your friend before the guards come back,” he says, walking away from the mage. His mind is bursting with so many questions, he fears he may be choked silent if he tries to give voice to them. Perhaps he will question the mage later if there is time.

The Seeker returns a few hours later, and when she notices the prisoner is stable, she drags Solas out of the Chantry and to the battlefield. He thinks it might be better this way. There is little he can do for the prisoners now. Luka must be patient, and Lumen must wake. When that time comes, Solas hopes they can all work together to close the Breach and keep this world — and the next — from falling apart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hopefully Solas using a potion/spell/whatever to help everyone communicate doesn’t come off as lazy. I’m just not knowledgeable enough with linguistics to successfully write Lumen and company learning a completely new language. So I will be using my made up version of Tamrielic and Theodosian very sparingly. :P
> 
> Translations:  
> “An gris,” - The grey.  
> “Nim ilpen auga i’an gris.” - Too many eyes in the grey.  
> “Lustandi?” - Listener?  
> “Man sun ni?” - Who are you?  
> “A bej’mos virsten ni.” - I don't understand you.  
> “Verth est Lumen?” - Where is Lumen?  
> “Siya est Bosmer.” - She's a Bosmer.  
> “Hva hafa ni stani til siya?” - What have you done to her?  
> “A liebal morde ni!” - I'll kill you!  
> “Hva est sja?” - What is this?  
> “Nautt Madr frelsa an,” - Night Mother save me.


	3. Chapter 3

Lumen wakes in a dungeon, surrounded by men bearing strange sigils. There is blood in her mouth, and her head feels overcrowded— throbbing with new words and phrases, and she doesn’t understand why. It does not worry her for long because her hand is on _fire_. Pain rips through her flesh as green light fills her vision. She can feel the erratic pulsing of magical energy deep within the bones of her forearm, and she wonders if one of these guards might be kind enough to remove her arm because she is certain this magic is going to kill her.

Her aching head throbs in time with her magically wounded hand. It's hard to think, let alone remember what happened. The last thing she recalls is Shouting at that damn tear — which was a terrible mistake, and Cicero will surely give her an earful about it later — now she is trapped in a cell and surrounded by enemies. At least they didn’t look like Thalmor. That’s something.

A woman with red hair enters the cell, her footsteps silent. “What is your name?” she asks, and while her words are strange and foreign to Lumen’s ears, somehow she understands her.

Her first instinct is to respond in her mother tongue, but— “My name is Lumen.” Her accent is thick and harsh, but the woman seems pleased. “Who are you?”

The woman ignores her, and asks, “Where are you from?”

“Skyrim,” she answers, pushing herself to her knees. “ _Who_ are you?”

“Where is Skyrim?”

“Uh,” comes Lumen’s intelligent reply. “It’s— in Tamriel? You’ve heard of Tamriel, right?”

The redhead says nothing. She only steps aside to make room for the woman storming into the cell. She has short hair and olive skin, and she moves with a warrior’s grace. “Tell me why I shouldn't execute you right now,” the warrior growls. “The Temple of Sacred Ashes is destroyed! The Divine dead! Everyone who attended the Conclave is _dead_ — except for you.”

Ah. Lumen knows this interrogation tactic well. There is always a kind, quiet interrogator to establish trust, and a loud, brash one to create fear. She and Cicero have used this technique quite a few times. If her instincts are to be trusted, then the redhead is the one to be wary of, not the warrior. However, Lumen is certain the warrior would cuff her across the face if she gave voice to the questions crowding her mouth. _‘What is a Temple of Sacred Ashes? And a Divine is dead? Which one? Akatosh, I hope. Stupid wretch couldn’t even handle Alduin himself!’_ She shakes her head in confusion and says the only reasonable thing she can think of.

“I didn’t attend a Conclave. I don’t know what a—”

“Liar!” The warrior grabs her wrist. The light in her palm flares as the woman’s fingers squeeze so tight, she swears her bones are grinding together. “Explain this!”

“I was hoping you could,” she grits out. “I don’t know what that thing is or how it got there, but if you’re willing to cut off my hand, I’d be grateful.” It takes all her self-control not to give into a blind panic when she feels the tendrils of heat clawing up her arm.

“Let her go, Cassandra,” the redhead’s voice is soft, but there is an unmistakable warning threading through her tone. “We need her to cooperate with us.”

The warrior releases her instantly, and Lumen nearly cries in relief as she clutches her hand to her chest.

“Tell us what you know.” The redhead kneels in front of her. “Help us, and we’ll help you.”

It’s irritating to be in such a vulnerable position. But until she knows where her brothers are, she’ll have to play along. “I was in Winterhold, and there was this green— _thing_ out on the ice fields. My companions and I were trying to figure out what it was, but then it lit up so bright I couldn’t see, and I must have passed out…” It’s not the most convincing lie she’s ever told. But it’s not like she’s going to admit to Shouting at the tear! Besides, these people have no idea who she is, and therefore, they do not know she is Dragonborn. Best to keep it that way.

“Winterhold? I’ve never heard of such a place,” Cassandra says. “Have you, Leliana?”

“No,” Leliana admits, her eyes wandering over to where Lumen’s things are. “But that doesn’t mean she’s lying. Her armor bears no heraldry that I can see. But her coin is of foreign make, and she claims she is from a place called Skyrim. I’m not familiar with it, but Josephine might have some answers.”

Lumen eyes her armor and weapons longingly before turning her attention back to her interrogators. “How can you not know where Skyrim is? Have you ever looked at a _map_?” she snaps, her anxiety twisting into anger. “Where the fuck am I? And who _are_ you people? Are you with the Empire or some weird human-run subset of the Dominion? If that’s the case, you ladies are severely misguided.”

Cassandra regards her coolly, while Leliana’s lips quirk into a little smile.

“You’re in Haven, which is in Ferelden, which is a part of a larger continent known as Thedas,” Leliana explains, patient as ever. “We have never heard of a place called Winterhold, or Skyrim, or Tamriel. I’ve never even seen the imprint on the coin you carry. You are as strange to us as we are to you.”

“That’s not comforting,” Lumen sighs. “That just means I am very, very lost. I didn’t even know you could kill a Divine! I wasn’t even sure if they existed! I always assumed those blessings you got at the shrines were some kind of magic trick!”

“Of course the Divine existed!” Cassandra says, utterly incredulous. “And they can die. They are mortal women, after all!”

“Mortal?” Lumen bites the inside of her cheek, wishing this conversation would just end. Every answer just creates more questions. “But the Divines are gods and goddesses.” Not to mention there’s currently a war over a mortal man being given Divine status. But she sees no point in bringing up Talos now.

“Divine Justinia was no goddess.” Cassandra paces around the room like a wild thing trapped in a cage. “She was a mortal woman, and a great one at that.”

“Well, I didn’t kill her. I don’t even know who she is!” She takes a deep breath, determined to keep her temper in check. “I’d like it if someone would tell me what’s going on. Use small words if you must. I’m _very_ confused.”

Leliana places a hand on Cassandra’s shoulder to stop her pacing. “You should take her outside,” she says, her voice quiet. “Show her what happened.”

“All right.” Cassandra grabs Lumen by the collar and hauls her to her feet. Despite her rough manner, she seems calmer than before. “Come with me. There is something you need to see.”

Lumen casts one last look at her armor and weapons. She is not entirely unprotected; her shrouded leathers will provide plenty of cover, but she misses the weight of her Daedric pauldrons and breastplate. She is close to asking if she can at least have her gauntlets, but completely forgets about her armor when she sees a familiar face peering out from a dark cell.

“Luka!” She gasps, worming out of Cassandra’s grip and running over to him. She slips back into Tamrielic, comforted by the sound of her native language. _“Thank the Night Mother you’re all right!”_

He reaches between the bars to grasp at her hands. _“I could say the same for you! You’ve been out for days!”_

 _“Days?”_ While she does feel a little concerned for her health, she has more important things to worry about. _“Have you seen Cicero and Arnbjorn?”_

 _“No,”_ he says, shaking his head. _“Hopefully they are planning our rescue as we speak. Where is that woman taking you?”_

“That’s enough!” Cassandra grabs Lumen by the arm. “Get away from there!”

Lumen clings to the bars of Luka’s cell, rooting her to the spot and infuriating her captor. “Wait,” she gasps. “He’s my friend! I need to make sure he’s all right!”

“He is unharmed, as you can see,” she snarls. “Let go!”

 _“Look for the bald elf,”_ he says quickly. _“He helped me. He’s the reason we can communicate with these people, and I think he’s the reason why you’re still alive.”_

Cassandra grabs Lumen by the collar and _pulls_ , and her fingers lose their grip. “I will have the guards carry you out of here if I have to! Get moving!”

 _“That’s not very descriptive!”_ Lumen shouts, despite Cassandra’s orders for her to stop talking and start walking. _“Details would be nice!”_

Luka purses his lips in thought before saying, _“He kinda looks like one of those old Snow Elf statues— you know, before they became the Falmer.”_

Lumen snorts a laugh, horrified for any elf that might compare to a Falmer. But her amusement is short-lived, as Cassandra shoves her out of the dungeon and into the blinding, afternoon light.

* * *

Dread settles in the pit of her stomach when she steps outside and looks to the sky. Shafts of livid sunlight stream through the breaks in the clouds, and there, high above the mountains, is a great, swirling chasm of green and gray. Her dark-sensitive eyes water at the sudden burst of light, but she cannot look away. _‘Did I do this?’_ she wonders silently. _‘There's no way that Shout could have caused so much damage… is there?’_

“We call it the Breach,” Cassandra explains without prompting. “It’s a massive rift into the Fade. It’s not the only rift, but it is the largest. They were caused by the explosion at the Conclave.”

Lumen is fully prepared to ask her how an explosion can do something like that, but the Breach suddenly swells, and white-hot pain lances through her arm, bringing her to her knees.

“It grows larger with each passing hour. The mark on your hand is linked to it somehow, and when the Breach grows, so too does your mark,” she goes on to say, a twinge of sympathy in her voice. “And it is killing you.”

“It’s killing me?” she asks, only to make sure she understands the gravity of her situation. Oh, what a fool she is. She survived Astrid’s treachery and Alduin’s hunger only to die of some strange, magical ailment because she was too stupid to leave well enough alone! Not only that, but Luka is locked in a cell, and Cicero and Arnbjorn are missing! _‘You’re an idiot, Lumen. A complete dumbass. If you had just left that thing alone, you’d be home by now. You might even be blissfully drunk. Or naked and—’_

“Our resident mage believes your mark might be the key to sealing the rifts. Perhaps if you can seal the Breach, it will stop the mark from spreading. But I do not know for certain. What I do know is that we need you to try.”

“I understand,” she growls, getting to her feet. “I’ll do it.”

Cassandra lifts her brows in surprise. “You’ll help us?”

“I have two choices,” Lumen snaps, irritated by the woman’s reaction. “I could sit in my cell and bemoan my fate, or I could try to stop— _whatever_ this is. Is it so surprising that I would choose to help?”

“It is unexpected.”

“It shouldn’t be,” she says, glaring up at the sky. “That giant, swirling shit-storm in the sky is what’s unexpected. Luka really needs to see this. He knows more about magical anomalies than anyone. You should bring him, too!”

The woman's surprise instantly morphs into anger. “So you two can turn on me the instant we’re out of the village? Absolutely not! Do I look like I was born yesterday?”

Lumen grits her teeth. It’s all that keeps her from telling the woman the truth; if she wanted her dead, she would be. But the truth would not get her very far. In fact, it might land her in extra ropes and one less tooth in her mouth. The caustic mix of anger and fear trigger her _Thu’um_ , and she has no choice but to keep her mouth shut. Just as well. It’s not as if Cassandra is willing to listen to what she has to say.

“Come,” she says, shoving Lumen in front of her, but keeping a firm grip on her shoulder. She guides her through the muddy streets of a small village, the residents either glaring at her or staring in wonder. “They have already decided your guilt. They need it—”

Cassandra continues to speak, but Lumen stops listening after a while. She’s not an innocent. She was a killer before the Dark Brotherhood ever found her, and she lives for the thrilling rush of the hunt. But _this_ is not her fault. If she is going to be executed for something, then let it be for a crime she committed! Maybe she’ll confess to killing the Emperor before they hang her.

She is brought back to the present when Cassandra produces a small knife and cuts through the ropes binding her hands. “Where are we going?” she asks, her eyes lingering on the blade.

“We need to test your mark on a small rift before we try it on the Breach,” she explains. “There is one nearby.”

“This may be a stupid question, but can I have a weapon? I’m feeling a bit exposed.”

“You’re right, that _is_ a stupid question.”

Lumen sighs and looks around in a vain attempt to get her bearings. The land looks similar to Skyrim; a layer of virgin snow glitters in the waning light, vast forests of pine jut out from the ground and reach toward the sky. Everything seems quite normal until they come to a bridge that will lead the further into the mountains. As they cross, Lumen takes notice of a group of humans performing rites for the dead. She’s never seen robes like that _or_ the strange insignias embroidered upon them.

“Who are those people?” she asks, not really expecting an answer.

“They’re with the Chantry,” Cassandra explains, sounding utterly bewildered. “Surely you know what the Chantry is.”

“If I knew I wouldn’t have asked.”

“Most of the people here follow the teachings of Andraste, the prophet of the Maker,” she explains. Her tone is not unkind, but it irritates Lumen all the same. The language, the land, the religion— everything is so different. It makes her homesick. “The Dalish elves tend to worship the Creators. Who the Creators are, I do not know. I’m afraid I’m not familiar with their culture. Solas might be able to provide more insight when it comes to elves.”

Lumen is lost in her thoughts as she and Cassandra make their way toward another bridge. Did that portal lead to another country somewhere on Nirn? Or is she in an entirely new world? Luka once tried to explain a theory as to how the different planes of Oblivion worked, and while she wasn’t interested at the time, she did retain enough of the conversation to wonder if she stepped into an alternate dimension. It is possible. She did visit Sovngarde, after all. If different realms of Oblivion and Aetherius exist, then certainly there are other realms just like Mundus.

Her thoughts come to a screeching halt when a bolt flies from the Breach and obliterates the bridge ahead of her. Bodies, stones, and debris fly in all directions. The air is knocked from her lungs when she slams against the surface of a frozen lake. She rolls onto her side, groaning in pain. When she opens her eyes, she finds herself face-to-face with a fish frozen beneath the ice. “I bet you think _you’re_ having a hard time,” she says to the fish. “I’d trade places with you in a heartbeat.”

“Demons!” Cassandra cries out. “Stay behind me!”

Lumen curses when she notices one of the demons gliding around Cassandra and coming right toward her. She pushes herself to her feet and immediately begins looking for a weapon. A stick, a rock, anything would be good at this point. Anything but the _Thu’um_. 

A glimmer of silver draws her eye, and she turns to see the sunlight glinting off the blade of a fallen soldier’s sword. She dives for the sword, yanking it from the soldier’s hand and immediately swinging it at the advancing demon. It takes all but two swings to kill the thing, and it shrieks as it collapses into a pile of what appears to be rotting, wet rags.

“That’s so weird.” She prods the pile with the tip of her sword. When Dremora die they leave a body behind, but she has seen defeated ghosts, and wisps leave behind piles of goop. She supposes these ‘demons’ are no different.

“Drop your weapon!” Cassandra stomps over to her with her sword raised. “Now!”

“Fine,” Lumen snaps, in no mood for another argument. She throws the sword to the ground, the blade clattering loudly against the ice. “Have it your way.”

“Wait…” Cassandra grimaces as she slides her sword into its sheath. “You should have a way to protect yourself. There will be more demons ahead. Grab the sword and follow me, it’s not far.”

As far as mountain climbs go, this one is not the worst. The trails are not steep, and it’s not nearly as horrible as the climb to High Hrothgar. They do encounter a few demons along the way, but they are of little consequence. For all of Cassandra’s distrust and Lumen’s irritation, they make a good team. Eventually, the sound of a distant battle reaches them, and Cassandra vanishes around the corner of a curved pathway, charging into the fray.

The mark on her hand flares when she nears the rift hovering over the soldiers. It looks almost exactly like the one in Winterhold. Lumen doesn’t take the time to inspect her surroundings, she just glares at the rift and marches toward it, uncertain of what to do, but knowing that she must do _something_. The pain in her hand is so bad it turns her stomach, but she won’t let a little thing like pain keep her from doing what must be done. If she can learn to seal these rifts, then maybe — just maybe — she can find a way home and close the rifts there.

“Quickly! Before more come through!”

Lumen doesn’t have time to see who’s shouting because strong fingers wrap around her wrist and thrust her hand toward the rift. A bolt of energy arcs from her hand. The air itself practically screams when the energy hits the rift, and within the blink of an eye, the rift explodes. She stares into the place where it used to be, and then finally turns her gaze to the man — _elf_ — who grabbed her. If his smug expression is anything to judge by, said elf is rather proud of himself.

“What did you just do?” she asks, shaking her marked hand to ward off the feeling of pins and needles in her fingers.

“I did nothing. _You_ closed the rift, and so the credit is yours,” the elf says, his smirk curving up a little further on one side. “Whatever magic caused the Breach also placed that mark on your hand. I theorized the mark might be able to close the rifts— and it seems I was correct.”

She stares at the elf for longer than what is considered polite. But she can’t help it, he just looks so _odd_. His features are smoother than most elves; he has no brow ridges to speak of, and his ears have no distinction. It’s difficult to tell if he’s a Bosmer or an Altmer, or something else. What unsettles her the most is how hard it is to place his age. His face has the smooth contours of a youth, and the deep shadows of an elder.

The elf begins to fidget, and Lumen finally looks away. “Well, I’m glad I can be of some use."

“I suspected you would be.” And, presumably just to nettle her, the elf says, “It seems you hold the key to our salvation.”

Lumen pinches the bridge of her nose. “Oh, by all the gods above and below, don’t push that kind of responsibility onto me. I _just_ woke up.”

“It’s still nice to know we won’t be ass deep in demons forever,” comes a gravelly voice. “I was beginning to think there was no end to this madness.”

If she thought the elf odd looking, then this man is just _bizarre_. He could pass for a Nord with his broad shoulders and strong features— but only if he were three feet taller.

“Varric Tethras, at your service.” He leans forward into a half-bow, a sardonic smile curling his mouth. “Glad to see you’re finally up and about. You had us worried.”

“Lumen,” she offers with a vague wave of her hand. “Uh, it’s nice to meet you.”

The elf steps closer to her. “My name is Solas, if there are to be introductions. I am pleased to see you still live.”

Varric chuffs a laugh. “What he's trying to say is that he kept that mark from killing you while you slept.”

“Did you?” she asks, turning her eyes to Solas and looking him over with the same scrutiny she would give a potential recruit— or victim. “You’re the one my friend told me about, aren't you? He said you kept me alive, and that you’re the reason we’re able to communicate at all. How did you manage that, by the way?”

A sharp intake of breath betrays his momentary rush of anxiety, but the others do not notice. “I concocted a potion that would allow us to communicate. I took the liberty of giving some to your friend, too. I thought he might find his stay in prison a little less harrowing if he could understand what was being said.”

“Why wasn’t I told of this?” Cassandra demands.

“My apologies, Cassandra. I had planned to, buy it slipped my mind when I was called to the battlefield.”

“You should have informed me _before_ you administered the potion,” she says, before heaving a sigh of resignation. “I suppose I should be grateful. Without it, we would not have gotten this far. It doesn’t matter now. Let’s hurry to the forward camp.”

The ease with which Solas weaves a lie gives her pause. Perhaps others could accept a simple slip-up like that, but Lumen cannot. The Listener of the Dark Brotherhood must always be wary. Even here, she is on the lookout for potential threats and allies. Solas is an unknown, and she thinks he will remain that way for quite some time. Varric is open and friendly, and he does not behave like someone with ulterior motives. Cassandra can be trusted as well, but only because her cage of morality keeps her in check.

Varric sidles up beside her as they make their way through the snow. “So, where are you from? You don’t look like a Dalish elf, and you certainly don’t act like an alienage-born elf.”

“Nowhere you’ve ever heard of,” Lumen grumbles, growing weary of telling people where she’s from, only for them to look at her like she sprouted a second head. “I’m afraid I’ve never met a Dalish elf, nor do I know what an alienage is. I’m a Bosmer— er, a Wood elf, but I’m not from Valenwood. I’ve never even been there.” _‘Please tell me you’ve heard of Valenwood...’_

“What's Valenwood?”

Lumen sighs. “Valenwood is the land where Wood elves hail from.” She glances at Solas, surprised to see confusion in his eyes. Even if she wound up in another country, surely a fellow elf would know about the elven kingdoms. “You’ve not heard of the walking city of Falinesti? Where the Wood elf king lives? Or the High elf kingdom of Alinor? Or Morrowind? Do you even have Dark elves here?”

“As far as I know, we only have one kind of elf. They’re only differentiated depending on where they are born; in a city or out in the wilds. But they are physically the same,” Varric explains. “And the elves haven’t had a kingdom in centuries. But I know someone who’d be very interested in these elven kingdoms you mentioned. Ah, no. ‘Interested’ isn’t the right word. She’d be _thrilled_.”

That surprises her. The elves of Tamriel are well-traveled, and there are rumors that the Altmer have branched out and explored other places beyond Tamriel. But if these people haven’t heard of them, and they have no elven kingdoms— the evidence for this place being another world is steadily mounting, along with Lumen’s anxiety. The Listener cannot be worlds away from the Night Mother!

“It’s not as great as it may sound. There’s this giant religious war. Elves and humans can’t seem to get along. Elves and other elves can’t even get along. Same with humans. Elves are dicks. Humans are dicks. Everyone’s a—”

Cassandra heaves a sigh. “There are more demons ahead. Pay attention, please.”

“I’m inclined to agree with you.” Varric grins at Lumen while he readies his crossbow. “Everyone’s a dick.”

Solas nods. “Well said, Master Tethras.”

They encounter multiple swarms of demons on the way to the next camp. But Solas and Varric are skilled fighters, and they make short work of the creatures. Once she got over her initial disgust, the demons became easy to deal with. They’re like any other creature or person she’s been hired to kill, and so she puts all her fear and rage into the fight, ripping through the demons like they are nothing.

Despite the unfamiliar surroundings, the camp is a welcome sight. Potions, rations, and water are freely available, and Lumen manages to sweet talk a guard into trading his daggers for her sword. They are not as sharp as her Daedric blades, but she can move better with daggers in her hands. Leliana waits for them on the other side of the bridge, near a man in red and white robes, who promptly starts barking the moment they draw near.

“I order you to take this criminal to Val Royeaux to face execution!”

“You do not give the orders here, Chancellor,” Cassandra snaps, her lip curling. “The prisoner is under my care, and she has offered to help us close the Breach.”

“She’s the one who brought this on us in the first place!” the man snarls, his pale face ruddy from the cold. “See reason, Seeker!”

“Yeah, the guy ranting and raving is _obviously_ the reasonable one, here,” Varric mutters, loud enough for all to hear. “What does he expect us to do about the Breach without her help? Pray about it?”

The Chancellor’s face goes red with poorly concealed indignation. “She is the cause of this, and you are giving her a chance to escape!”

The Breach swells, bringing forth another wave of pain. Lumen grits her teeth and tucks her glowing hand close to her chest. “I don’t think I’m going to survive long enough to escape,” she growls, hating how her heart flutters after her mark flares up. “Or face a trial.”

Cassandra seems content to ignore the Chancellor. “The mountain path will be the quickest way to the temple,” she says, glancing at Lumen’s marked hand. “But it’s not the safest. We lost contact with an entire squad.”

“The only other option is to charge with the soldiers, but that will take more time.” Leliana hesitates before saying, “And I do not know how much time you have left.”

“How do you think we should proceed?”

While Lumen is mildly surprised they would defer to her on this, she supposes it makes sense. She is the one with the mark, after all, and she must survive long enough to use it. “Take the mountain path,” she says, her eyes flicking up to the Breach swirling in the sky. It’s just another challenge to overcome. “I’m in no hurry to die, but I don’t think your world has much time left. Just— if this works, and if I die, please set Luka free. He did nothing wrong.” Lumen smiles in spite of her mounting anxiety. “Consider it a last request.”

“Consider it done,” Cassandra says, her expression grim.

* * *

She is not willing to die for this world.

If it weren’t for Luka’s presence, and the worry that Arnbjorn and Cicero are lost somewhere, Lumen would not be willing to risk her life in closing Breach. All that keeps her going are thoughts of her brothers, and the hope that fixing this world might fix her own, in turn.

And yet— when she steps into what’s left of the Temple of Sacred Ashes, an intense rage alights within her. She is no stranger to cruelty. But this is beyond cruelty. This is an _atrocity_. The top of the mountain is flattened. Still smoldering remains litter the charred ground, and the air reeks of death and hot metal. The bodies of the fallen are frozen in place, forever sealed in their last moments. The twisted, charred remains litter the ground, their mouths locked in silent screams. She doesn’t care for the people of this world, but _no one_ deserves that kind of death.

“This is all that’s left of the temple,” Cassandra explains. “We found you nearby. The soldiers who found you claim you and your friend stepped from a rift. Some even claim there was a woman behind you, but no one knows who she was.”

They are silent for the rest of the walk through the temple. Cassandra takes the lead, her eyes forward, utterly focused on the task ahead. Solas and Varric walk beside her, their weapons at the ready. No one dares to speak until they meet Leliana at the edge of the ruins.

Leliana shakes some grit from her gloves before sliding them back in place. “I hope this plan of yours works, Solas. Our troops are exhausted. More demons keep slipping through the rift. I’m not sure how much longer we can go on like this.”

Lumen peers over the edge of what used to be a hallway, and into the courtyard below. Soldiers stand guard around a large rift floating near the crumbling remains of a statue, and above— “Shor’s _balls_ , man.” The Breach swirls in the sky. Rocks, debris, and what looks suspiciously like a few dead bodies are trapped in a perpetual orbit. “How am I supposed to reach that?”

“You’re not,” Solas says, his voice pleasantly calm. “However, the rift below was the first, and I believe it is the key. If you can close it, it could help with the Breach.”

“Let's get to it, then.”

Lumen takes off down the rocky path without waiting for anyone to respond. Moving feels better than standing still. Being this close to the Breach is only intensifying the pain in her hand— not that it ever went away. Glowing, red rocks line the pathway. When she asks about them, Varric tells her everything he knows about the stones, which Lumen files away for later use. _‘Red Lyrium. Causes madness. Do. Not. Touch. Ugh— keeping Cicero away from anything that glows is going to be a nightmare.’_

She — along with everyone else — are shaken from their thoughts with a voice thunders across the ruins of the temple.

“Bring forth the sacrifice!” The words are thick, wet, and labored, as if breathing is a chore. Something tainted and _wrong_ throbs within the lisping syllables of that voice, but it’s quickly forgotten when the rift sparks and a vision that can be seen by all plays out in the remains of the courtyard.

She watches the events unfold; a dark creature with burning eyes holds an elderly woman hostage, and then— a vision of herself in full armor, barging in on the ritual. Her shadow-self speaks in Tamrielic, confused, _terrified_ , and angry. But soon the vision fades, and she can see nothing but Cassandra’s scowling face.

“You _were_ there!” Cassandra snarls. “Who was that? And the Divine— is she— is this vision true?”

“I have no idea,” Lumen says, too confused to be angry. “I don’t remember any of this. Not a thing. It’s just gone from my memory!”

Solas looks up at the rift. “It was an echo of what happened here. The Fade is bleeding into this place and giving us a glimpse of what caused the Breach.”

“If nothing else, I think it proves Lumen’s innocence,” Varric says. “Right, Seeker?”

Cassandra clenches her jaw, but she does not argue. Solas goes on to explain how the rift before them is closed, albeit temporarily, but that Lumen can open it with her mark, and then seal it for good— not that she's listening to him. She is more concerned with the creature who stole her memories and tried to have her killed. While she may have been prepared to abscond back to Skyrim with her brothers as soon as she found them, she has a new goal now. She’s going to find her brothers, kill this creature, _and then_ run back to Skyrim as fast as she can.

“Prepare yourself,” Solas says. “I don’t know what will come through when you open the rift. But it won’t be friendly.”

With an internal _fuck it_ , Lumen takes a step toward the rift. She is prepared to face whatever lurks on the other side. She’ll do _anything_ to get her brothers back, and if it means playing the hero for the people of Thedas, so be it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As a rule, I prefer to write original events rather than what we see in the game. But Lumen being lead to the Breach is kind of important and unavoidable. I used a few bits of game dialogue, but overall, I tried to insert enough original stuff to make it interesting. 
> 
> The next chapter is half written, but I am not sure if I will have it finished before the 12th. I have surgery on that day and I will be a space case for the rest of that week.


	4. Chapter 4

The past few days have been the most annoying of Arnbjorn’s life.

Minding the Listener and the Keeper is a difficult task on its own, but then Lumen had to Shout at that stupid light— portal— _whatever_. Now Arnbjorn is lost, and to make matters worse, he’s stuck with Cicero. Oh, and it’s raining, too. Actually, no— This is no mere rain. It’s a fucking deluge.

“Brother,” Cicero gasps, yanking at the collar of Arnbjorn’s armor to get his attention. “Brother are you sure we’re not _dead_? Poor Cicero was hoping to serve in the Void, but this cannot be the Void. Is it Hircine’s realm?”

“No.” He slaps Cicero’s hand away from him, not wanting the madman to ruin the armor that Hircine gave him when he killed a wayward werewolf. “We’re not dead. This place is not the Hunting Grounds — not that you’d be allowed in — and if you don’t stop touching me I’m going to drown you in the swamp!”

Cicero’s face crumples into a severe pout. “But Cicero is cold and _wet_ , and worried, and he does not know where his sweet Listener is!”

“Whining isn’t going to change anything,” he snarls, grabbing the little Imperial by the back of his shirt and hauling him toward a nearby cabin. “We need to wait out the rain.”

“But what if the Listener is _lost_ in the rain!”

“Trust me. She’s not going to suffer the weather for long.” Arnbjorn smirks despite his current misery. Lumen would not tolerate these conditions. She would either find shelter or skin someone alive to create a shelter. While he is concerned for Lumen and Luka, he cannot do anything for them by losing himself to worry. All he can do is attempt to keep Cicero in line, and wait. So with a plan in place, he all but drags Cicero inside the cabin, which is empty and dry.

Arnbjorn drops Cicero near the door and slogs his way to the fire pit. The logs are mostly ash, and so he looks around the cabin to see if there’s anything he can use for kindling. There are the remnants of a bed that was destroyed for that purpose by the cabin’s previous occupant, but there is plenty of wood and straw left to for his use. So he settles into the task of building a fire, doing his level best to ignore how his soaked armor clings to his skin. That will have to be taken care of, but he is not looking forward to stripping down in front of Cicero. He’s dealt with enough of the jester’s harassment for one day.

Said jester is already removing his clothing, and muttering something about how he’ll never be dry again. Arnbjorn is content to ignore him, focusing instead on feeding the flames of the small fire. But then Cicero — fully nude — steps into view and plops down on the floor near the fire pit.

Arnbjorn squeezes his eyes shut. Of all the traumas he’s suffered, he did not need to see _that_. “Where are your smallclothes?”

“Drying,” comes Cicero’s terse reply. “There is no need to overreact. It is not like Cicero has anything you have not seen before.”

The annoying little shit isn’t wrong. Arnbjorn can recall countless times where he was being stripped down so Luka would patch up a wound, and he can think of many times where Lumen or Cicero was on the receiving end of that treatment. Still, it doesn’t mean he can tolerate multiple assaults of full-frontal nudity.

“Unfortunately,” he grumbles, seeing that he will not only have to deal with a naked Cicero, but his mercurial moods as well. “Some warning would be nice.”

“Very well.” The little Imperial narrows his eyes, a malicious smirk curling at one corner of his mouth. “In the future, Cicero will tell you if he plans to traipse around nude so that you may avert your eyes. Chivalrous Cicero shall endeavor to preserve Arnbjorn’s purity so that he may find a suitable husband. Sithis knows he needs all the help he can get.”

Arnbjorn presses his lips together. He knows better than to rise to the bait, even though he is sorely tempted to lock Cicero outside in the rain. It’s best to ignore him when he gets like this, so Arnbjorn says nothing while he removes his armor. At least his smallclothes remained dry. Thank Hircine for small favors.

“How come your smalls remained dry and poor Cicero’s did not? It’s not as if he wants to sit bare-assed on this filthy floor.”

“I wear armor. You— don’t.”

“Details.” Cicero wraps his arms around himself. At least he got some of his anger out with that sarcastic outburst. He’ll be easier to deal with. “Any idea as to where we are? This does not seem like a realm of Oblivion.”

“Only in reality does it rain like this.” Arnbjorn peers through a small window. Outside, the rain continues to pour. He wonders how long they have until the swamp overflows. “I’ve been all over Skyrim, and I’ve never seen a place like this. What about you? You’ve traveled more than I have.”

Cicero snorts. “Only around Cyrodiil and Skyrim, and Cicero has done his best to avoid swamps.”

“I think Luka was right. That tear— it was a portal of some sort. But I don’t know if we’ve ended up somewhere on Nirn, or in another world entirely. I suppose it’s possible.”

He instantly regrets those words. Cicero’s eyes fill with the desperate energy of a caged animal. “Another _world_? Cicero cannot be worlds away from the Night Mother! Or his sweet Listener! He should be protecting her!”

“Calm down,” Arnbjorn snaps, his voice harsh enough that Cicero flinches. “The Night Mother will be fine. She’s safe in the Sanctuary, and Babette can manage her care until you return. As for Lumen— she eats dragon souls for fun. She’ll be fine. I’d worry more about whoever is getting in the way of what she wants.”

“But she needs me!” he gasps. “Mother needs _me_! Mother needs the Keeper, not the unchild! She does not know the rites!”

Arnbjorn has to remind himself that the care of the Night Mother is the only thing that kept Cicero alive during his ten-year stint in self-imposed solitary confinement. “Stop,” he says, calmer than before. “You’re going to work yourself into a panic, and that won’t help us. I need you to focus for me. Can you do that?”

It takes some time for Cicero to compose himself. He was at the edge of a full-blown panic attack, and so Arnbjorn is content to give him the time he needs to calm down. The rain pours all around them, filling the cabin with an ambient droning. The fire in the pit cracks and pops, while Cicero inhales through his nose, then blows the air out through his mouth.

“Cicero does not like this place,” he says, hunching forward. “Too many worries in poor Cicero’s head. Too much to think about. Too much uncertainty. Where is Lumen? Where is Luka? Where are we?”

“Can you remember anything? What happened after Lumen Shouted?”

“Cicero remembers the Shout. Then light— and then, he remembers fighting those Daedra in this terrible rain.” He casts an eager eye to his still drying clothing when he gives into another shiver, and then he turns back to Arnbjorn. “You?”

“The same. I remember the light, and I remember everything that happened after. But I don’t remember anything in between. I feel like we’re missing something important.”

The Imperial curls in on himself. “Cicero does not like all these blank spots in his memory.”

Arnbjorn paces around the cabin, and eventually comes to a stop near a boarded up window. He peers through an opening between the slats. Despite the rain, the swamp is eerily still. The stillness of the water in combination with the smell of disease coming from it only add to his mounting anxiety. Across the water, he can see a green light floating along the shore. It moves back and forth, drifting along like a residual ghost stuck in a single moment in time. He’s been in enough Nordic ruins to know that spirits are seldom _stuck_ , and they will attack when one draws close enough.

An hour passes by in relative silence. Arnbjorn keeps watch, while Cicero mutters and hums to himself. The rain hasn’t let up, and so far he’s seen six corpses crawl out of the bog and wander off. The sight of the shambling, rotting corpses churns his painfully empty stomach.

“We can’t stay here,” he says, feeling the need to state the obvious. “There nothing here but the dead.”

Cicero grumbles. “The dead should stay that way. It is bad for business if they get up and walk again after being stabbed!”

“Agreed.” He turns away from the window but quickly regrets it when he catches sight of the jester’s pale rear end. “Our main issue is a lack of food and clean water. We can collect the rainwater, sure. But we still have to eat, and so far, I haven’t seen anything I’m brave enough to eat.”

“Does that statement include Cicero?”

“Ugh.”

The little shit grins, clearly pleased with himself. “Which way should we go? Cicero cannot tell north from south thanks to the cloud cover. But surely you can.”

He has a point. As a werewolf, Arnbjorn has an intrinsic knowledge of where the moons are positioned. Depending on the month, he knows where they are in relation to the stars and can lead them in the right direction. This ability has saved them many times, be it in a storm or miles underground in a ruin. But— “These moons aren’t right.”

Cicero cocks a brow. “Say what now?”

“They’re not Masser and Secunda,” he says, trying to swallow his panic. Will he be able to transform here? Will he have control over it? There are too many unknowns, and it could make him dangerous to be around. “They’re different moons.”

Sensing Arnbjorn’s panic, Cicero quickly dresses in his somewhat dry motley and bounds over to him. “Do not fret, brother dear. There are other ways of determining directions, right?”

“There are,” he says, putting his blessedly dry armor on and ruining the moment by stepping out into the rain. “But I can’t think of anything that will help us now. Moss grows on the north side of a tree, but that won’t help us here. It’s too wet.”

“So what do we do?” Cicero whimpers when he steps out into the cold downpour.

“Pick a random direction and start walking.”

* * *

Their chosen direction ends up being the wrong one. They run into more undead and a group of incredibly violent people that remind them of the Forsworn. After a tactical retreat, the two assassins decide to head in the opposite direction. This last-minute decision proves to be the right one, because the rain starts to clear up as they pass through mountains and into a hilly grassland.

The pleasantness of their new location wears off rather quickly when a group of mages attacks them. The air tingles with energy as spells scream overhead. While the mages wield potent spells, they are no match for a stab-happy jester and a pissed off werewolf. One mage falls with a dagger in his belly and laughter in his ears; another dies when Arnbjorn cleaves him in two. The last mage tries to run, but he doesn’t get far. Cicero throws his dagger, and it hits true— right in the mage’s kidney.

“Silly mage tried to run and deny poor Cicero of his fun!” The jester croons as he collects his dagger. He kicks the mage onto his back and continues his song. “But your flight was short-lived ‘cause you got yourself shivved!”

“Leave the dead man alone and help me loot the bodies,” Arnbjorn grouses, a little put-off by Cicero’s singing.

“Poor Cicero is only trying to entertain himself. This place is so very boring!” Despite his argument, he does as he’s told. “Cicero is bored without his sweet Listener to play with!”

When the fool lapses into a bout of over-sharing and provides Arnbjorn with _way too many_ details about his relationship with the Listener, he begins to fantasize about tying him up and leaving him for the wolves. But Lumen would kill him if he damaged her plaything. Actually, no— she would castrate him and _then_ kill him. Slowly. Tenets be damned.

As luck would have it, he finds a compass and a map on the body of a fallen mage. But after taking one look at the compass — and turning in place while staring at it — he is more lost and confused than before. “Everything is backward here,” he says, and Cicero looks at him like _he’s_ the crazy one. “I thought we were traveling south since it was getting warmer. But I think the opposite is true.”

“We have been going north this whole time?”

“Seems like it.” He points at a marker on the bloodstained map he took from the dead mage. “I think there's a village nearby. We should try to find it.”

“What if it’s a village full of angry mages?” Cicero asks.

“We observe? If it’s safe, we go in. It’s not like this is a difficult concept to grasp.”

Cicero mutters a few choice insults under his breath, but Arnbjorn ignores him. After a lengthy debate about the possibility of the mages getting up and walking again, they decide to burn the bodies before they leave the area. They walk a well-traveled path that winds through the hilly grassland, careful to avoid the green rifts that keep cropping up in the area. The creatures that spill through are frustrating to fight. Once one dies, another one slips through. With no way to close it, neither could find any reason to expend all their energy fighting the creatures when they had more important things to do.

Eventually, the pathway widens into a road. The ground is more even here, pressed down by horse hooves and wagon wheels. After exploring the area further, they come across what appears to be a crossroads of sorts. It is an intersection of various roads and paths, and there are small houses with mud walls and thatch roofs nearby. It would be positively pastoral, if not for the violent free-for-all that has broken out in the middle of it. Mages fling spells at heavily armored soldiers, and the soldiers fight back with blade and arrow. Arnbjorn and Cicero watch the fight from a safe distance, both content to stay out of it. But when a villager is struck with a spell while trying to flee the chaos, Arnbjorn is quick to change his mind.

“Bastards,” he hisses. A Dark Brotherhood assassin he may be, but he was a Companion first. His morals may be questionable at best, but he still has them, and he will not stand idly by while children and innocent bystanders are harmed.

“There are a lot of bodies,” Cicero says, his eyes sweeping the area. “And they’re not all mages or soldiers. They do not seem to care who gets caught up in their little spat, do they? We ought to teach them some manners.”

“There are five soldiers, six mages, and two of us.”

“We have faced worse odds, brother.”

“It could get a little hairy since it’s just the two of us.” There’s no reason to talk about how hungry and dehydrated they are. Discussing it will only breed doubt, and they cannot afford to doubt. Instead, he watches how the soldiers and mages fight, getting a feeling for the formation. “The soldiers have trained together. Their form is better than the mages, but it makes them predictable. Take out the archers, and use their arrows on the mages. I’ll deal with the warriors.” And after recalling the time he was on the receiving end of a mishap Cicero had with a Staff of Flames, he adds, “and _do not_ touch the staffs.”

“Fine,” Cicero says with a dramatic roll of his eyes. “Are you ready?”

“I’m ready.”

The mages and the soldiers are so wrapped up in their fight, they don’t notice Cicero and Arnbjorn until the two assassins are right on top of them. Cicero cuts down his first archer, the man's scream dissolving into a wet gurgle when a blade opens his throat. The jester then picks up the fallen archer's bow, nocks an arrow, and cackles as it punches directly into the side of the other archer. Arnbjorn swings his battle axe, the weapon coming down in a silver arc and smashing into the chest plate of one of the soldiers. It dents the metal, punching it deep into the soldier’s sternum. The mages hold off for a moment as they try to decide if the newcomers are offering help, or if they are merely two maniacs who joined a fight that isn’t theirs. They find out the truth when Cicero turns the bow on them and begins firing arrows.

Even though Cicero’s company is emotionally draining, Arnbjorn begrudgingly admits they fight well together. Whenever he sends an opponent sprawling to the ground, Cicero is there to deliver the killing blow. Despite their efficient execution of eleven strangers, they are not without injuries. Arnbjorn has burns across his arms and legs, and Cicero is sporting a few cuts and a black eye, but they are alive and — most importantly — victorious.

A stillness falls after the battle. Sudden and absolute. Arnbjorn gives into the pleasure of listening to the wind hiss through the trees. Though he is weary from battle, he is fully prepared to continue fighting when he hears footsteps behind him. He grabs his axe and whirls around, only to find himself staring at an old woman. She lifts her chin as she regards him, unflinching, even though he could quickly kill her.

Her clean, red and white robes mark her as someone of importance. A priestess, perhaps? She is old, but not what he would consider elderly. She speaks in a strange, harsh language, and while he can’t understand her, her gratitude is palpable. Things are getting better and worse at the same time. They found civilization, but they don’t speak the same language.

“I don’t suppose you’ve seen a foul-tempered elf and a dodgy mage anywhere?” His question drips with sarcasm, but it’s not as if it matters.

The woman tilts her head. She is confused, but she doesn’t seem put off by the language barrier, and she gestures for them to follow her.

Cicero glares at the woman’s back. “Do we follow her? Those robes seem like something someone in a cult would wear. She could be taking us somewhere to sacrifice us to her gods.”

“She’s an old woman,” Arnbjorn says with some amusement. “I don’t think she has any nefarious plans.”

The woman takes them to a secluded area that serves as a makeshift infirmary. Wounded villagers are everywhere; some sprawled on filthy cots, and others on the ground. She presents them to a timid elf dressed in robes that are two sizes too big. The poor thing quakes with fear when she looks at Cicero and Arnbjorn. The old woman pushes the elf toward them, urging her onward with soft sounds of encouragement.

“What do they do to their elves here?” Cicero wonders aloud. The elves of Tamriel do not cower like this meek creature before them. Even the mistreated Dunmer of Windhelm are a force to be reckoned with.

“Nothing good.” Arnbjorn tries for a tone of icy detachment. But his voice wavers. If they are somewhere where elves flinch at the sight of humans, that does not bode well for Lumen.

A soft chanting heralds a wave of healing magic. The spell is not direct like Luka’s healing. Instead, it spreads throughout his body, blindly seeking out his wounds and forcing them together. It is a monumental effort not to scratch his skin as it mends. 

Cicero, true to his nature, kicks up a fuss when the elf casts her spell on him. “Ooh!” He squeals, startling the elf into withdrawing. “That tickles!”

His laughter rings in Arnbjorn’s ears, and he half expects their healer to flee. But the elf covers her mouth with her hand, her shoulders shaking with silent laughter. She speaks softly to Cicero, as if she is talking to a small child, and she attempts the spell again. The elf, for all her timidity, is not put off by his madness. If anything, she seems comforted by it.

 _Like calls to like,_ he thinks bitterly. _Maybe she’s mad, as well._

Once they are both healed, the elf slinks away without another word. The old priestess brings them each a bowl of watery soup with a hunk of stale bread. It isn’t much, but Cicero and Arnbjorn tear into their food with the tenacity of starving wolves.

“So what are we to do?” Cicero asks. “Sweet Lumen could be anywhere.”

The Keeper is _technically_ Arnbjorn’s superior, but he is glad Cicero has the good sense to defer to his judgment. It is less likely to get them killed. “We’ll stay here for a few days. We need to try to figure out what’s going on, and find our bearings.”

“Cicero thinks there is a war on the horizon.” His face is drawn with worry. “He cannot bear the thought of his Listener being _lost_ in such a place.”

“Lumen is resourceful,” he says, more to ease his worries than Cicero’s. “We’ll have to decide in a few days: stay or go. Lumen might be looking for us, or she might need our help. Hard to know when we can't even ask if someone has seen her.”

Cicero nods his assent. “Very well,” he says. “Cicero will stay for a while. These people could use our help. They have no one to protect them from murderous mages and savage soldiers.”

“That’s kind-hearted of you.” He means the comment in jest, but he had been thinking the same. These people are caught in the middle of a massive battle.

“What else is a poor fool to do? His Listener is lost and the Night Mother is worlds away. He will not act until he has a plan, and helping these people so they continue to feed him is a good enough plan for now.”

“I can’t argue with that.”

With their hunger sated and their injuries healed, the two assassins see to the task of protecting the small settlement. It is only a matter of time before more mages and soldiers bring their fight to the village. But when they do, Arnbjorn and Cicero will be there to stop them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next up, we’ll see how Lumen and Luka are faring after closing the Breach. But I wanted to give you all a peek into what’s going on with Cicero and Arnbjorn. 
> 
> Poor Arnbjorn. XD He’s just a glorified babysitter.


	5. Chapter 5

The morning begins, as many of Lumen’s mornings often do, with a bang.

It takes a moment for her thoughts, sticky with sleep, to recognize the bang as the sound of a door slamming. Forcing open her heavy eyes, she catches sight of two blurred figures arguing near a doorway. Her head throbs in time with her pulse, and the nearby argument only adds to her splitting headache. _How much did I drink last night?_ She wonders, but then memories come flooding back with a cascade of visions; a giant demon, a doorway into another world, light spilling from her hand, and then— darkness.

“Would you two _please_ shut up?” she snarls, hoping to sound ferocious in her groggy, half-asleep state. “Or take your argument outside? My head is killing me.”

The voices fall into a stunned silence, and then—

“Miss Lumen!” Luka bounds to her bedside, despite Cassandra’s protests. “Oh, you’re awake. Thank Sithis!”

Lumen smirks, striving for good humor even though she’s certain her brains are leaking from her ears. “I see they let you out of your cage.”

“I did as you asked,” Cassandra says. “I freed your mage after you helped us. But I sorely regret that decision. He chased off the servant I assigned to you, and he thoroughly harassed Adan and Solas when they came to see to your healing.”

She is glad to have had Luka’s protection while she was unconscious. But she finds no reason to say that to Cassandra. It will likely just annoy her. “What were you two arguing about?”

“Solas will be coming by to check on your progress. When I informed your mage, he took issue with it.”

“I can see to Miss Lumen’s healing just fine,” Luka snaps, a glimmer of stubborn pride in his words. “I’ve healed her after many battles. I’ve brought her back from the brink of death! And I’ll not have her man-handled by a stranger!”

Cassandra pinches the bridge of her nose with her thumb and forefinger. “See if you can reason with him. I’m afraid I am at the end of my patience.” She turns to leave, speaking as she walks away. “Come to the Chantry when you have eaten and dressed.”

The door slams shut with more force than necessary. Lumen winces as the sound thunders through her skull. “Did the demon land on my head?” she asks, not expecting much of an answer.

Luka takes her marked hand in his. Gentle, spindly fingers poke and prod the strange, magical wound. “I believe your headaches are linked to this. So far, only Solas has figured out how to calm the magic within this mark.”

“If that is true then why are you giving him such a hard time?” Lumen takes a moment to inspect her lodgings. The structure is small, as most homes are in cold climates. But it is bright and warm. The walls are decorated with old paintings and woven artwork, and there is a pile of soft wolf and rabbit pelts heaped upon her bed. 

“What kind of loyal manservant would I be if I didn’t?”

“What are you talking about?” She shoves the heavy blankets away and swings her legs over the edge of the bed.

Luka’s mouth twitches as he tries not to smile. “That was the only way they’d let me in. I told her that I was your servant, sworn to see to your every need and to protect you when you were unable to protect yourself and that I simply _had_ to be with you if you were going to be seen by two male healers! Your purity had to be preserved.”

She gives him a flat look. “My purity.”

“Oh, it gets better,” he says, and he sounds _so pleased_ she’s tempted to strangle him. “Long story short, you stabilized the Breach and then promptly passed out. Luckily — or unluckily — a bunch of soldiers saw what you did, told everyone in the village, and now they all think you are a holy savior, sent by their god. They’ve been calling you the ‘Herald of Andraste.’ It’s got a nice ring to it!”

“Oh, fuck me.”

“I thought you’d say that,” Luka says with a laugh. “But it’s not all bad. You’ve been well cared for, and the townsfolk have been leaving offerings at the door. That's more gratitude than you ever got in Skyrim!”

Lumen bites the inside of her cheek. “Dare I ask— what is an Andraste?”

“I am not certain. I asked around. They call her ‘the Bride of The Maker.’ I suppose this ‘Maker’ is their one and only god. It’s no wonder this world has gone to shit with only one god to look after it. He must be quite busy.”

“And I am her Herald…” Overtaken by panic, Lumen surges to her feet— and instantly regrets it. The colors of the room blur together as black flowers bloom at the edges of her vision. Distantly, she can hear Luka cursing as he shoves her back onto the bed.

“For Sithis sake, woman! What are you doing?”

“I have to get out of here,” she says weakly. “This is awful. I’m not a messenger of this ‘Andraste,’ or whatever. We have to find Cicero and Arnbjorn and leave this wretched place behind!”

“While I agree with you, you are in no condition to travel— and don’t even think about trying to glare me into submission. I am standing firm on this one.” He loops his arm beneath hers, allowing her to lean on him as she stands. “Come on. You need to eat.”

Lumen does as she is bid, and is lead to a small table near the hearth. The table boasts an assortment of food that looks familiar, but also distinctly foreign. There is a tankard of warm ale, as well as a canteen of water (snow-melt, judging by the taste.) A plate of meat pies sits in the middle of the table. Their glistening, buttery crusts tempts Lumen into trying those first. Paired with the heavy pastries is a warm salad made of carrots, apples, and chopped nuts. Strange as it is, it tastes good. She supposes that’s all that matters.

A knock at the door announces Solas’ arrival, and he enters the house with a flurry of snow sneaking in behind him. “It is good to see you up and about,” he says, shaking snow from his robes. “How are you feeling?”

Her first instinct is to respond with sarcasm, but a stabbing ache behind her eyes forces her to reconsider. “I have a terrible headache, and my hand feels—” She takes a moment to consider her marked hand. The scar has gone quiet, and there is no trace of that eerie, green light. But it tingles with the memory of magic. It is not unlike the scars Alduin bestowed upon her during their final battle. They do not glow, but they are wounds given to her by something timeless. Immortal. God-given wounds do not truly heal. “It feels odd. I don’t know how to describe it. But it does not pain me as it once did.”

Solas regards her with the weary patience of an overburdened healer. “I can help with the headache, but the mark will require further study. That is if you are willing.”

“S’fine,” she says quickly, her limited manners strained thanks to the throbbing in her head. “You can ‘study’ my hand all you want. _Later._ Just fix my head for now. Um, please.”

“Hold still.” He reaches for her, and to her credit, she does not flinch away. Calloused fingers smooth into her hair and press against her scalp. A warmth seeps from them, caressing her aching skull and soothing the sharp pain into something more tolerable.

His eyes are closed, and Lumen uses this opportunity to study his face. Chestnut lashes and eyebrows are the only clue as to what his hair color might be if he had any. The elf’s features are striking in a strange, alien way. There are wrinkles at the corners of his eyes, but the rest of his skin is stretched tight. She’s seen centuries-old Altmer look similarly. Their flesh grows taught in their middle years. One last valiant attempt to cling to an unnatural youth before it begins to sag with the weight of age.

“How old are you?” The question is considered rude amongst humans. But age is seen as a point of pride among elves. “I’m usually a good guess, but I can’t place you.”

The healing magic withdraws abruptly, and Solas stares down at her in shocked amusement. “Does it matter?”

“Seeing as you’re dodging the question, I’d say it does.”

He breathes a laugh. “How old do you think I am?”

“If you’re anything like the elves back home, I’d say you were just shy of four-hundred years.”

“The elves of this world do not live as long as that.” His expression is one she cannot place when he finishes. Then, he smiles and asks, “How is your head?”

“Better.” She scratches her fingers through her hair to ward of the sensation of healing magic that still lingers. “You never answered my question.”

“I am not in the habit of numbering my days.” Solas’ smile takes on a hard edge. “However, at this very moment, I can feel each second moving by with excruciating clarity.”

A startled laugh bubbles from her throat. “Oh, I’m sorry,” she says, sarcasm dripping from each syllable. “Am I annoying you?”

“Not quite,” he answers. “You are as tenacious as Master Tethras when you think someone is hiding information. This is a trait that has served you well, I gather. But, truly, I cannot answer your question. I stopped counting my years when I reached adulthood.”

“Sorry,” she says, not meaning it. He still hasn’t answered her question. She’ll file that information away. Useless, probably. But it comforts her to think of everyone as a potential mark. “Thank you for the healing.”

“You are welcome,” he says with a little, polite bow. “I shall take my leave. Cassandra would speak with you, and I do not wish to be responsible for your delay.”

Solas leaves as quickly and quietly as he came. When the door shuts behind him, Luka claps his hands together and says, “Let’s get you dressed. Cassandra is not the most patient woman I’ve ever met.”

* * *

There is something overbearing about the Chantry. It is grandiose in a way that’s almost obscene when one compares it to the tiny huts surrounding it. Perhaps living in Skyrim has infused Lumen with some Nordic sensibilities. The Nords cannot afford to be wasteful, and they only take what they need and store the rest. This building seems like a significant waste of resources. It is no different from the sprawling temples of Cyrodiil. But Cyrodiil has the resources that a tiny mountain village does not.

Still, the dimly lit hall and the golden icons are preferable to the gawking crowd outside. But the small room full of angry voices at the end of the hall is decidedly less inviting. 

“I guess that’s where I am going,” Lumen says, tipping her chin to indicate the room at the end of the hall. 

“Seems like,” Luka says warily. 

Despite his unease, Luka stays close to her side— to comfort and to protect. At that moment, she is grateful for his presence. Lumen would hate to be alone here. While she may have the gratitude of a handful of villagers— the Chancellor, and whomever he answers to, seem to be baying for her blood.

Chancellor Roderick starts bellowing orders the moment they enter the room. “Arrest them! I want them clapped in chains and taken to Val Royeaux at once!”

“Disregard that order and leave us,” Cassandra says to the two confused guards. 

“Are you _kidding_ me?” Lumen squares her shoulders, her Daedric armor glimmering in the pale candlelight. She levels the Chancellor with a glare that would have a wiser man quailing with fear. The Dragonborn is not known her for patience, and the Listener will not tolerate threats. “After everything I went through, I’m still a suspect?”

“Y— yes,” Roderick stammers, before regaining some of his bravado. “You absolutely are!”

“You are _not_ a suspect,” Cassandra cuts in, her tone vaguely mocking. “Chancellor Roderick is just confused.”

“There are many suspects,” Leliana says before he can respond. “If Lumen and Luka were able to escape the Temple, that means whoever killed the Divine also had a chance to escape, or they have allies that yet live.” With a rather pointed look toward the Chancellor, she adds, “And we do not have an account for your whereabouts when the explosion happened, Chancellor Roderick.”

“How dare you!” In his outrage, his gaze flicks to the large book clasped in Cassandra’s hands. “And don’t you start barking about the Inquisition again! I’ll not hear it! It's nothing more than a cult for you and your thugs!”

There is more back-and-forth arguing, but Lumen stays out of it. This argument is apparently something the Chancellor and Cassandra have gone toe-to-toe over before. Still, she can feel her dragonfire rising to meet and decimate this man who dares to challenge her, but she clenches her jaw so tight it hurts. She’ll not Shout. Not after what happened last time. Not to mention, roasting a holy man to ashes in front of a handful of armed witnesses would not work in her favor. 

Eventually, Chancellor Roderick, red-faced and fuming, storms away.

“That was unpleasant,” Luka says, frowning as the door slams shut. But he quickly turns his attention to Cassandra. “What’s an Inquisition? It sounds menacing.”

Cassandra launches into an explanation about the Inquisition’s history and its current purpose. Lumen makes a valiant effort to listen, but her attention wanes, and she only catches a small amount of information: The Divine wished for an Inquisition to be formed to restore order if the Conclave failed. Considering it quite literally went up in flames, Lumen will count it as a catastrophic failure. 

“— you are not obligated to help us. But we would appreciate your assistance if you are willing to give it.” Leliana looks expectantly at Lumen.

In a vain attempt to pretend like they had her full attention, she says, “I reckon I need you as much as you need me. It would be unwise to go traipsing off on our own. I am sure Chancellor Roderick is not the only person who’d like to see me hanged— or worse.”

“Quite right,” a blond man says, his nose and cheeks chafed from the mountain air. “Tales of what happened at the Conclave have spread like wildfire. You will attract followers, but you will also attract enemies.”

“I’m not going to join any organization without first knowing _who_ I’ll be working with. I’ve met Leliana and Cassandra, but—” she turns her attention to the blond man and a young, well-dressed woman. “Who are you?”

“Oh, my goodness. Where are my manners? I am Lady Josephine Montilyet. I am the Ambassador of the Inquisition.” Josephine inclines her head. “It is a pleasure to meet you finally.”

After waiting as long as considered polite, the blond steps forward and tips into a bow. “Commander Cullen, at your service, Herald—”

“No,” Lumen growls. “None of this ‘Herald’ business, if you please. My name will suffice.”

“M-my apologies,” he stammers, taken aback by the ferocity in her tone. “I was a Templar, but now I lead the Inquisition’s armed forces, such as they are.”

Luka’s constant presence bolsters her resolve. But she feels _so small_ in this room of strangers. Her choices are limited: join them, or leave. She has no desire to explore an unknown land, and there is safety in numbers. There is also the matter of this— _creature_ who killed the Divine and then attempted to kill her. That _thing_ must be dealt with. 

Josephine steps closer, pulling Lumen from her brooding session. “Might I have your full names? And titles, if there are any.”

She supposes a formal introduction is an excellent place to start. “I am Lumen Ringtree and I—” The words crowd in her throat. What can she say? She cannot tell them she’s Dragonborn. That is likely a term that has no bearing or place here, and she will not tell them she is the leader of a cult of assassins that worship a corpse. That wouldn’t go over well. But she has to come up with an excuse for why she can fight so well, and why she wears such fine armor. “I have no title. My friends and I are— mercenaries.”

“People often hire us when there’s a problem that needs solving,” Luka helpfully adds.

“And you are?”

“Luka Frostborn,” he says, giving his preferred name rather than his family's last name of Stone-Fist. Even here, and after so many years, he cannot bear to use that name.

“We will join you,” Lumen says, meeting Cassandra’s burning gaze. Here she is, saving the world again. Only, it is not _her_ world. “But I must ask a favor.”

“You wish to find your missing men,” Cassandra says. “Do not look so surprised. I listened to everything you told me.”

“My scouts are aware of the situation,” Leliana says, her smile imperceptible. “I will let you know if they come up with any leads.”

“Thank you,” she says, although the words feel hollow. These people — these strangers — would help her _just like that?_ She finds it difficult to trust such kindness, but she has no other choice. “Just— thank you. It means more than I can say.”

“You are welcome.” Leliana’s expression softens a little.

Luka walks to the large table that dominates the room, his eyes roving over the map drawn upon it. Leliana and Josephine watch him with mild interest, but Cassandra and Cullen regard him as one would an approaching wolf. Luka, the lanky, awkward, mage-assassin, is often unseen and ignored in Skyrim. But here he stands out like a sore thumb. His robes practically scream ‘mage,’ and he doesn't carry weapon because he doesn’t need one. Not when he can pull fire and ice from the very air itself.

“Since we’re on friendly terms, may I ask you something, Commander?”

“Of course, Luka,” Cullen replies, his voice stiff. “I shall answer your questions to the best of my ability.”

“When I was imprisoned one of the guards did something to me. It worked like a silencing spell, and it _did_ dampen my magic— to a point, but it wasn’t a spell. Solas said it was— a smite? But how does that work, exactly?”

“I’m sorry you had to endure that,” he says, more for the sake of politeness than contrition. “Seeing as you are a mage, you were guarded by Templars. These warriors are trained to counter a mage’s abilities. To put it simply, they achieve this by reinforcing reality. They close off the mage’s access to the Fade, and the mage cannot reshape the world to their will.”

“But my magic doesn’t come from the Fade,” Luka says, a little breathless in the wake of new information. “Where I come from, magic suffuses the very air itself. We live and breathe it. It is within us, always. An inner spark, if you will. But you said they reinforce what is real? That is— _fascinating_. Here I was thinking it was some alternate, nullifying form of magic, but it’s more like a battle of wills. But how does that _work?_ Magic is real in Tamriel, but it’s not real here? Because of this— Veil?”

To Lumen’s surprise, Cullen chuckles at that. “I think Solas might have more answers for you than I. I can only tell you how a Templar’s abilities work, but as for the Fade— that is not my area of expertise.”

“I will ask him,” Luka says determinedly. “Thank you for telling me what you could.”

“I—” Cullen swallows his surprise and smiles. “You are welcome.”

“Wait a second,” Lumen says. “If your magic isn’t coming from this Fade place, and we’re no longer in Tamriel, then where is it coming from? You’ve been healing me, so I assume you are accessing magic somehow.”

“Well it’s coming from the Fade _now_. But not entirely. I don’t truly understand it. Hopefully Solas will have some answers.”

* * *

The evening sun blazes as it meets the horizon. Brilliant red light bursts through the breaks in the snow-grey clouds. Lumen and Luka walk side-by-side, exploring their new home, and eagerly searching for food and drink.

“You would think,” Luka begins at length. “That with the threat of demons and looming war, these people would have better things to do than gawk at us.”

“Strange newcomers are far more interesting than praying.” 

The two assassins couldn’t blend in with the crowd if their lives depended on it. Lumen is too tall and far too proud to pass as a “normal” elf. The elves in Haven are all servants, and they are skittish, flighty things. And Luka, as awkward and skinny as he is, carries himself with a warrior’s grace. The scant few mages in Haven were as soft as nobles, and they made it a point to remain out of sight.

The locals regard them with a mix of wonder and suspicion, as if they can’t decide what to make of the strange pair. Lumen wonders how they will react when Arnbjorn and Cicero finally join them. Her lost brother’s faces swim in her vision, sending a jolt of longing through her. They will be alright. It will take a lot to kill either of them. But the uncertainty weighs on her. _Where_ could they be?

“These people are ridiculous,” Luka whispers, ducking his head as if he could avoid the narrowed eyes of a soldier. “If you aren’t human, and woefully mundane, then you’re seen as a threat.”

“To be perfectly fair, we _are_ threats. You remember what we do for a living, yes?”

“Yes, but there is no hope of blending in here.”

“You could better than I,” she says, gently nudging him with her elbow. “But I am glad you are not trying to. We make quite the pair, and we’ve given these people something to talk about rather than death, demons, and war. Perhaps we’ll earn a blessing for our service.”

Luka snorts, too harried to utter a laugh. “From which Daedra, I wonder?”

Her mouth curves into a smile, but she does not answer. For at that moment, a familiar stocky figure is swaggering toward them.

“I heard you had joined the land of the living, but I’d yet to see the proof.” Varric’s boisterous tone fades away as he stops in front of her, and a bit quieter, he asks, “How are you holding up?”

“I’m fine, all things considered.” It is a flimsy lie. She is not fine. She is miles away from ‘fine.’ But she has no desire to lay all her troubles at Varric’s feet, nor does she wish to recount them. 

“Do you know where I might find Solas?” Luka asks. “I have questions about the Fade.”

Varric looks slightly pained at the mention of the Fade. “Sure, kid. I’ll take you to Chuckles, but then I’m going to run away as fast as my legs will carry me. I’ve had enough of demons and the Fade for one lifetime.” 

He leads them up a small knoll where three houses sit. They do not have to look hard to find Solas because he is perched on a nearby rock, barefoot despite the snow, and carving a small chunk of wood. He looks up when they approach, and nods in silent greeting.

“Are you coming?” Luka looks to Lumen, his blue eyes wide.

He clearly wants her to stay with him, but— “Um, I was hoping to talk to Varric for a bit. Why don’t you and Solas talk, and you can just tell me the important bits later?”

His shoulders sag, but he nods. “All right, Miss Lumen.”

Varric matches her stride as they walk swiftly and resolutely _away_ from the mages. Once they are out of earshot, he asks, “So what did you want to talk about?”

“Oh, nothing in particular. That was mostly just an excuse so I could leave without hurting Luka’s feelings. This is all very new and exciting to him, and he’s like a dog with a bone when he is focused on something.”

He laughs good-naturedly. “So what’s with you two?”

“What do you mean?”

“He told Cassandra he was your servant, but you don’t treat him like a servant. He watched over you day and night; he kept a wary eye on anyone who came into your cabin. That kind of loyalty is hard to come by, and I’m just wondering what could have inspired it. You’re someone important back in your world, I can tell. I’ve got a sense for these things.”

There is something about his easygoing charm that makes her want to tell him the truth. But the whole truth would be damning. “Luka and I are very close friends,” she says, recalling every moment he stood steadfast by her side: through Blackreach, and against Alduin. “We’ve been through a lot together, and I suppose that’s made us very protective of each other.”

If Varric suspects she’s being evasive, he does not let it show, and he doesn’t push. “So this is just another adventure for you two?”

“Pretty much.” She smiles a little. “But we’ve never been worlds away from home before.”

Varric stops just outside a small, noisy cabin. The local pub, judging by the stench of fermenting yeast and urine. “Are you sure you’re worlds away? Not that I don’t believe you— I love an unbelievable story, but it seems— unbelievable.”

“Not where I come from.” Although she knows she wouldn’t be saying that had she not seen in the past with an Elder Scroll, and traveled to a realm of Aetherius to fight the World-Eater. “Weird shit happens in my world every century. Maybe less.”

“If you’re willing to tell me a tale, then I’ll buy the ale.” He grins up at her. “What do you say?”

“I can try,” she admits. Perhaps she can tell Varric of the Dragonborns without selling herself out completely. “I’m not a great storyteller, though. I usually leave that to Cicero.”

“Don’t worry about it.” He steers her into the loud pub. “I’ll be glad to hear about someone else’s problems for a while.”

* * *

The dense fog of a hangover trails after Lumen as she makes her way to the Chantry. She spent hours drinking and talking with Varric, and when Luka found them, there was more drinking and talking. She doesn’t remember what all was said, but she knows with a grim certainty that she drank entirely too much, and she is paying for it now. Her head pounds, her stomach feels weak, and the morning sun is entirely too bright. Under normal circumstances, she’d still be in bed sleeping the hangover off, but a servant had come by and told her Leliana wished to speak with her.

Hoping for _good_ news, Lumen strides into the blessedly dim Chantry, and into the war room.

“I heard you were out late with Varric last night,” Leliana chirps. “I apologize for waking you so early—”

“It is mid-morning,” Cassandra cuts in.

“—but I have news of your missing comrades, and I didn’t think you’d want to wait.”

Those words have a sobering effect. “Where are they? Are they okay?”

“A chantry mother by the name of Mother Giselle has reached out to us. She wishes to meet you. However, her messenger had mentioned something else— Two skilled fighters have been protecting them from the mages and Templars that are fighting in the area.”

“Did they say anything else? That’s pretty vague.”

A sly grin curls her lips. “The messenger said the men do not speak the common tongue, and they strongly suspect one of them is from the Avvar tribe. But he seems civilized enough.”

“I don’t know what an Avvar is— but if there’s even a chance those are my friends then we need to find them!”

“We should go so that you may meet with Mother Giselle,” Cassandra says drily. “If there’s a chance we could gain Chantry support, we have to take it.”

Lumen grits her teeth. “My companions are more important than the Chantry, especially if we are to have any hope of sealing the rifts and setting your world to rights.” She looks to Cullen, who’d been doing his level best to remain out of the conversation. “When can we leave? Today?”

“This news only came in this morning,” he says sheepishly. “We will need at least a day to ready the troops and prepare the supplies.”

“I see,” she says, deflating a bit. She’s used to traveling with a small group of people. As such, not much is needed in the way of preparations. It’s certainly not as complicated as moving an army.

“You could travel with my scouts,” Leliana says. “They’re leaving this afternoon. It’s a small squadron. They travel lightly and quietly.”

“I’ll travel with the scouts. I’m not used to traveling with a large group, anyway.”

“Go pack your things, and meet me by the gates in an hour. I’ll introduce you to Scout Harding. She knows the Hinterlands better than anyone else, and she’ll be your guide.”

“I’m going with you,” Cassandra says firmly.

“Can you move quietly in all that heavy armor?” A wise woman would accept Cassandra’s help without argument. But no one has ever accused Lumen of being wise. 

Her jaw tightens. “I will manage, Herald.” And with that, she turns on her heel and strides away.

Lumen follows after her. “I was only joking,” she says, not feeling too guilty for teasing her. “I think having you there will be a good thing. I don’t know how one should speak to a Chantry Mother. I barely understand your religion.”

The Seeker heaves a long-suffering sigh. “You have stabilized the Breach, but we still have a long way to go. We need the support of the Templars if we’re to close it entirely. To do that, we first need Chantry support. I will help with Mother Giselle if you ask me to. But I think you will manage just fine on your own.”

“Really?”

“You act like a fool, but I know you will do what is right.”

Lumen snorts a laugh. Never has she been called a fool, and now that she has, she doesn’t think she can deny it. “And here I thought you were coming to keep an eye on me.”

“Do I need to?” She then laughs, much to Lumen’s surprise. “You are a capable fighter. I have not seen your mage in battle, but if he is a part of your mercenary group, then I suppose he is as skilled as you are.”

“He’s kept me alive on more than one occasion. But I would welcome your help.”

“Then you have it.”

They part more amicably than they met, and for the first time in days, Lumen feels hopeful. Her brothers are _alive._ And with any luck, she’ll be with them both by moonrise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm getting ready to head to Las Vegas for a work trip. I'm a little stressed (I hate flying) so I stayed up writing rather than sleeping... so here you go? :)


	6. Chapter 6

A nervous excitement turns Lumen’s stomach. She is glad to have something to do, and relieved to know that her brothers yet live— and they are not far away, according to Leliana. As wonderful as the news is, it doesn’t sit right with her. If something sounds too good to be true, then it is. But the Listener of the Dark Brotherhood is not one to shy away from a little danger, and by the ninth hour, she and Luka are waiting for Scout Harding by the front gates.

Lumen tries to give the impression of a calm, collected warrior. But she really just wants to scream, and keep screaming until the gods take notice and return her and her brothers to Tamriel. It wouldn’t happen, but she might feel better if she _did_ scream. It’s not as if the gods would listen, anyway. But rather than lose herself to despair, she focuses on the comforting weight of her armor. This armor kept her alive in Sovngarde, and it would keep her alive in Thedas.

It is Luka’s presence that truly steadies her, though she is reluctant to admit it. Not that Luka would be overcome by ego. But he would work himself into an extreme state of worry if Lumen shared her feelings. She has already displayed too much weakness as it is. The Listener has to be above such things.

Appearing bored and aloof is no problem for an elf of Tamriel, and so that is the mask Lumen chooses to wear when the rest of her entourage arrives with Cullen in tow. She expected the scouts and Cassandra to show up, but Cullen’s appearance is a surprise.

“Herald,” he says, more breathless than she expects him to be. “I would be remiss if I didn’t ask you to wait to travel with the soldiers. There will be many dangers on the road, and you are too important to risk.”

“I thank you for your concern, Commander. But I assure you, I will be fine. I have faced worse dangers than a long walk down a steep mountain.”

Undeterred, Cullen continues, “it’s the mages and rogue Templars that concern me. Please. Let the scouts do what they need to do. Allow them to clear the path, and for my soldiers provide protection.”

“I don’t need protecting,” Lumen snaps, her mask falling. It is difficult not to feel insulted, but she reminds herself that this man does not know her. He doesn’t know what she’s capable of. (If he did, she’d probably be clapped in irons.) “I will be traveling with the scouts. I _want_ to do this. You won’t change my mind.”

“Then let me send a few of my soldiers with you.”

Lumen opens her mouth to protest, but she is cut off by the most cheerful dwarf she’s ever met— granted, the only other dwarf she knows is Varric. But while he’s charismatic, Lumen wouldn’t go so far as to call him ‘cheerful.’ Not when deep shadows of regret linger behind his eyes.

“I won’t refuse extra help, Commander,” the dwarf says, her smile brighter than the morning sun. “Send them to us, if you please. We leave in a half hour.”

“Consider it done, Scout Harding.” Cullen sketches a bow and strides off, bellowing orders at his nearby soldiers.

“Scout Harding,” Lumen says by way of greeting. “Thank you for allowing me to travel with you. I hope it hasn’t caused you too much grief.”

“I’m happy to have you along, Herald. The road will be dangerous, but we can handle ourselves. Judging by your armor and weapons, I’d say you can handle yourself as well.”

“I do all right.” Footsteps from behind draw her attention, and Lumen turns to see Solas and Varric fast approaching. “You’re coming too?” she asks, genuinely surprised. “We’ve got scouts and soldiers, and Cassandra, too. You needn’t trouble yourselves over me.”

“You were planning on leaving _me_ behind?” Varric adjusts the strap tethering Bianca to his back. “I can’t let you run off without me! I might miss something important.”

Solas remains quiet, apparently seeing no reason to explain himself. Despite her protests, Lumen is grateful for any extra help. She didn’t consider asking anyone else but Luka to come with her. But they are all members of the Inquisition, such at it is, and she is the Herald (Sithis help her), so it’s not so strange that they would want to go where she goes. 

“I don’t mean to sound like an ingrate. I do appreciate the help. I’m not used to _this._ It’s overwhelming.” She’s never had armies and scouts backing her up. She’s never had so many people treating her like she's some holy savior. Even after she defeated Alduin, no one put her on a pedestal. There was gratitude, certainly, but no one made a big deal out of it.

She feels suddenly weary. _I don’t want to do this again._

“‘Overwhelming,’ seems like an understatement,” Varric says. “I can’t promise it’ll get better, but I’ve got time to spare if you need to talk it out.”

“I’ll keep that in mind. Thanks, Varric.”

Solas grins at that. “You might change your mind when you find out you’re the subject of his next novel.”

“Way to spoil the surprise,” Varric grumbles, refusing to meet Lumen’s eyes.

“You’re writing about me? Why?”

“How could I not? A strange elf from another world falls out of the Fade and can close the holes in the Veil— that’s good shit. All the story needs now is a romance arc to keep things interesting.”

Lumen can’t control the expression that comes over her. Judging by Varric’s laugh, it’s one of disgust. 

“Miss Lumen already has a ‘romance arc’ with Cicero,” Luka tells them. “And with Arnbjorn, to an extent. And—”

“ _Luka!_ ”

Varric perks up at that. “A love triangle? Those can be a hard sell. Readers love them or hate them. Personally, I love them in a story. Eh, not so much in a real-life circumstance. Too much drama.”

Lumen covers her face with her hands and lets out a strangled sigh. Her love life is unusual, sure, but she doesn’t make a point to discuss it with other people. It invites trouble— and judgment. Before Luka can further embarrass her, she clasps her hand over his mouth and says, “If you’re going to pair me up with anyone, how about the Seeker? She’s _definitely_ my type.”

Varric seems inordinately pleased by this information. “Consider it done.”

“If you two are finished—” Cassandra sighs. “Oh, nevermind. Prepare to move out.”

Harding issues orders to the scouts under her command, and within a few moments, they are all off. The well-traveled path that will take them down into the Hinterlands seems to go on forever, and Lumen isn’t thrilled about making this journey on foot. Horses would be nice. 

Cassandra falls into step beside her. “It occurs to me that I don’t know much about you.”

“What do you want to know?” she asks, hoping the ground will give way and swallow her whole. There's nothing she hates more than small-talk.

“Let us begin with something easy. It’s clear you don’t believe in the Maker. You’ve never heard of him until very recently. What sort of religion do you follow?”

“Uh…” Lumen runs her fingers through her hair. “I don't worship any gods. They’re a bunch of layabouts who never step in when the world is in trouble. They just curse a mortal with some stupid power and make them deal with it.” She casts a glare at her marked hand. “Not unlike your Maker.”

Cassandra smirks at her irritation. “Some might call it a blessing.”

“I call it a curse.”

“So you are not religious, then? There’s no god you pray to?”

Lumen does not answer her immediately. Cassandra means no harm, and it would be impolite to snap at her for asking. But something inside her gut twists. The question is too invasive, and it would be a grievous sin to answer. The Dark Brotherhood holds it’s secrets close— even here.

“I’d prefer not to say.”

“Very well,” Cassandra nods. “Thank you for humoring me. I know politics and religion don’t make for polite conversation.”

“Not typically, no.” Lumen glances at the warrior. “But no voices were raised.”

Cassandra meets her eye. “And no swords were drawn.”

The assassin and the warrior share a smile as they fall into a comfortable silence. The afternoon sun streams through the breaks in the clouds as they follow the mountain path through an evergreen forest. There is no snow here, only ferns and moss and hardy trees that can withstand the brutal, mountain cold. It’s all rather peaceful— and utterly boring. With nothing to do but move one foot in front of the other for the next few hours, Lumen chooses to listen in on the conversations going on around her.

“I noticed you do not carry a staff, Luka.” Solas gives him an assessing once-over. “Why is that?”

“I don’t need one,” he chirps. “It was a struggle learning how to cast in such a hostile environment. The Veil _sticks_ to my magic. But I’m learning how to work with it. My spells are just as strong here as they are at home. I just have to concentrate a little harder.”

“A staff would help with your focus,” Solas explains. “You may even alter your staff to amplify a chosen element.”

“But they’re so heavy.” Luka glances at the staff Solas is using as a makeshift walking stick. “And— no offense, but that thing is hideous.”

“It is meant to serve a purpose,” Solas says, sounding more amused than anything. “It is a weapon. It is not meant to be pleasing to the eye."

Their conversation draws Lumen’s eye to the staff in question. It is an ugly old thing, but— “Is that a blade?” she asks, eyeing what appears to be a sheathed blade at the bottom of the staff. She has seen staves back in Skyrim, but most people just wave them around without aim and cast spells. It seems that Solas may actually _stab_ people with his.

Solas lifts the staff, yanking the leather sheath away and exposing a deadly sharp blade. “It is quite useful when an enemy gets too close.”

“Okay,” Luka breathes. “I’m suddenly more open to the idea of using a staff. I suppose the extra focus is all well and good, but stabbing people is better.”

Solas then asks about Luka’s favored element, and the two mages proceed to bore everyone in the vicinity with their conversation. Cassandra elects to ignore the mages in favor of questioning Varric about his crossbow. Their relationship is rocky at best, but talking about Bianca is one of Varric’s hobbies, so it’s a nice, safe subject.

Lumen jogs to catch up with Scout Harding. “Are we there yet?”

“Thedas is a big place, your worship.” Harding chuckles. “We are in the Hinterlands, yes. But we are still quite far from the crossroads.”

 _I miss Shadowmere. We’d be there already if I only had my horse._

It is difficult not to lapse into a bout of self-pity at this point. Lumen is tired and hungry, and her feet are sore. The mark on her hand hums with strange magical energy. She is careful not to complain about it, though. It would just invite trouble. Luka would panic, and Solas would prod.

Rather than focus on her misery, Lumen tries to admire the scenery. Tall evergreens give way to lush beech trees and fields of soft green grass. It doesn’t look so different from the Rift— though it’s warmer, overall. 

The peaceful countryside erupts into chaos when an arrow screams through the air and splinters against the trunk of a tree. A group of Templars burst from the cover of trees. Their swords, and their anger, aimed at Solas and Luka. 

“Stop this at once!” Cassandra barks, her sword drawn to fend off the Templars. “I command you to stand down!”

A Templar with a ruddy complexion steps forward. He sneers at the symbol on her breastplate. The man says nothing as he draws his sword on Cassandra, and the fight begins in earnest.

Lumen reaches for her daggers, eager to spill blood after so many days without. Luka seems to be of the same mind; he bares his teeth in a feral grin as he pulls ice to his fingertips. They've killed plenty of demons, but they don't make for a satisfying kill. Demons don't beg for their lives, and they don't bleed. They just scream and melt into a puddle of goop.

A Templar chooses Luka as his target and charges. The air _tingles_ as Luka pulls magic from the Fade and shapes a spell in his hands. A shard of ice shrieks through the air and punches into the Templar’s breastplate, and through his chest. A stunned silence falls over the group as the Templar falls to the ground.

“Nice shot!” Lumen shouts, not quite registering the looks of abject horror on the faces of her companions. But in the midst of battle, she cannot waste precious time trying to figure out why they are so shocked. They were fully prepared to kill the Templars— are they going to be picky about _how_ they kill them? 

The Templars return to the battle with renewed ferocity. Harding and her scouts pelt them with arrows, but most of them glance off their armor. The barrage of arrows stops when Cassandra and Lumen move in to attack. The Seeker and a Templar meet in a loud clash of steel-on-steel. Nearby, a Templar falls when she is hit with a bolt from Varric’s crossbow, and a blast of ice from Solas.

The last Templar rounds on Lumen, his sword dripping with the blood of a fallen scout. Lumen’s daggers are in her hands, her mind already tallying all the weak spots in the warrior’s armor: near the neck, the armpit, the groin, back of the knee. Those are always the best spots to get a hit in. The hard part is getting close enough to do it. Seeing no way to get close without getting stabbed, Lumen feints to the left, and when the Templar drifts to dodge her attack, she lobs a dagger at his face. The blade punches into his eye and sends him reeling backward, screaming.

It’s a sloppy kill, but she’d rather be sloppy than end up with a sword between her ribs. She’ll have to remember to thank Cicero for all those countless knife-throwing lessons when she finds him. In the past she could only ever hit a target with the hilt of the dagger.

Lumen stomps over to the Templar and wrenches her dagger from his eye socket, which sends the dying man into convulsions. She watches him for a moment, waiting for him to die. At home, she’d leave an enemy to die slowly, and she would savor every moment of it. But here she has an audience, and her companions from Thedas are annoyingly altruistic. So she heaves an irritated sigh and quickly ends the man’s suffering with a quick stab to the throat.

“Everyone still alive?” Varric saunters across the battlefield, pulling his bolts from the corpses. He eyes the Templar killed by Luka’s spell. The shard of ice steams in the warm air, melting slowly. “Kid, you went from ‘gawky’ to ‘terrifying’ thanks to this spell.”

“Oh, I know nastier spells than that.” Luka preens a little. “But thank you.”

“You had better not be referring to blood magic, mage. Or you and I will have a problem.” 

Everyone goes stark still at the sound of Cassandra’s voice. Lumen moves in front of Luka, determined to protect him in case things go awry. She likes Cassandra, and she doesn’t fancy the idea of killing her— also because the scouts, Varric, and _maybe_ Solas, will take issue with it.

“Blood magic?” Luka asks, nibbling his fingernail in confusion. “Oh, like Daedric spells? Those always require a blood tithe—”

“Stop talking,” Lumen warns.

Cassandra sneers at them both, but her eyes meet Lumen’s as she issues a final warning. “If I catch your mage putting a blade to his skin, I will cut him down where he stands.”

“Noted.” Lumen hates being in such a position. Normally, she would challenge Cassandra. _No one_ threatens her brother and lives. But this is not a normal circumstance, and she is not stupid enough to pick a fight she cannot win.

Luka’s expression falls and Cassandra storms away to help the scouts build a pyre for their lost comrade. The two outsiders stand aside as the dead are arranged. The Templars are stripped of any valuables and unceremoniously set aflame. But the dead scout is given his final rights as Scout Harding lights the makeshift pyre. 

A heavy mood falls across them as they resume their travels. There is little in the way of chatter, and Luka looks miserable. He didn’t mean to upset anyone, but sometimes he goes off on tangents that are somewhat taboo. Lumen can recall a time when they were chased out of Riften because _someone_ was loudly (and drunkenly) eschewing the virtues of necromancy in the middle of a crowded pub. She’d snapped at Luka for it because she did not appreciate being chased through a forest by an angry mob while she was three sheets to the wind. But the despondent look on his face had nearly broken her heart.

“I’m sorry, Miss Lumen,” he whispers. “I fear our new companions may be questioning their alliance with us.”

“We’d just been attacked, and emotions were running high,” she says, just as quietly. “It’ll be okay.”

“Are you angry with me?”

“Of course not!” He looks a little taken aback at the harsh tone of her voice. She sighs, wishing she could cheer him up, even though she has no idea how. But the waning sunlight glinting off of Solas’ bald head gives her a sudden burst of inspiration. “Hey,” she whispers. “He looks a bit like a Falmer from this angle, eh?”

Luka bites the inside of his cheek, determined not to laugh or even crack a grin.

“I’m serious! I mean, he doesn’t look exactly like a Falmer. But the bald head and those tiny, little chicken-legs are dead-on!”

Solas glances over his shoulder, casting a glare in her direction. “I can hear you, Herald.”

“He’s got the ears for it, too,” she says, and Luka finally bursts into a fit of laughter.

“What is a Falmer?” Solas slows down so that he may walk with them. “If I am going to be compared to one, I should like to know what it is.”

“They’re known as Snow Elves,” she says, opting to be vague about it. 

“Is that it? Surely you can offer a better explanation than that.”

“What more do you want from me? I’m not a fucking historian.”

His lips twitch. “I didn’t think you a coward, Lumen. But perhaps I was mistaken.”

As he intends, the words hit a nerve. But the conversation comes to a halt when Scout Harding holds up a fist, a signal for all to be quiet. Everyone goes still. Lumen strains her ears, expecting to pick up the sounds of a faraway battle. No— it’s not a battle. It’s screaming. _Weeping._

Lumen tiptoes among the still group until she finds Scout Harding. “What’s just ahead?” 

“The crossroads,” she replies. “That’s where Mother Giselle is—”

Scout Harding’s next words are lost. Lumen’s pulse pounds in her ears. The blind panic threatening to overtake her makes her queasy with rage. Cicero and Arnbjorn are down there! One of Leliana’s people said they had been defending the town. But now there is blood on the wind and weeping coming from the small village, and all Lumen can think about is exacting her rage on whatever — or whoever — has attacked. She doesn’t care if they are Templars or mages, she’ll tear them to shreds if they’ve harmed her brothers.

Lumen takes off down the path, her feet hitting the ground with such force that her bones quake. She can’t move fast enough! The part of her that is very much a dragon is screaming at her to use her Voice. But she is still frightened. The last time she Shouted she was thrown into Thedas! What if she is thrown back out, but her brothers remain? _Don’t be an idiot! There are no Rifts nearby. It’s safe to Shout. You have to Shout! Cicero and Arnbjorn’s lives might depend on it!_

_**Wuld Nah Kest!** _

Trees whip by in a green blur. The wind howls in her ears, drowning out all sound but the frantic beating of her heart. She skids to a stop at the edge of the crossroads, leaving a plume of dust in her wake. Lumen tries to ignore the howling of her inner dragon. Her bones ache with the need for action— but she cannot fall into a mindless rage. But when she pushes herself this far, both mentally and physically, it is difficult not to cede control to that part of her that is more monster than mer.

The air is thick with the scent of blood and charred flesh. Bodies are strewn across the ground, twisted and mutilated. Healers in bloodstained robes are prowling the edges of the battlefield, seeing to the wounded and offering prayers to the dying. 

Lumen stumbles toward the chaos, desperately seeking a sign of her brothers, but finding none— except for the bloodbath they undoubtedly left behind. She sees the mutilated remains of a Templar scattered across the ground. The discarded breastplate bears the tell-tale signs of a werewolf attack. A chill of dread crawls down her spine as she scans the area a second and a third time. No sign of Cicero of Arnbjorn. They had been here, but they are gone now.

The sound of Cassandra’s alarmed voice heralds the arrival of her companions. Lumen remains still, standing in the blood-soaked mud, distantly aware of the scouts and soldiers moving out across the village, searching for survivors while Cassandra searches for Mother Giselle.

Luka wheezes as he stumbles to her side. He opens his mouth to nag her for running off so quickly, but it snaps shut when he sees the bloody heap at Lumen's feet. "Oh, shit."

"This is Arnbjorn's work," Lumen murmurs, careful not to be overheard. "But it's the middle of the day. He's always so cautious about when and where he shifts. He never does it in the middle of a crowded town or where others can see him. It’s possible none of the townsfolk saw him do it, but it seems to unlike him.”

"The followers of Hircine view lycanthropy as a blessing," Luka says slowly. "But some see it as a curse, especially if it cannot be controlled."

"Do you think he can't control it here?"

"It is a possibility."

"Mother _fucker_!" Lumen snarls, earning a few glares from the nearby healers. "I'm not stupid enough to ask, ‘what else could go wrong?' But you would think I did with all the shit that keeps happening to us!"

Luka's lips thin. "Don't push it, Miss Lumen. This 'Maker' may see that as a challenge and curse you further."

"That would be my luck." She glares at the scattered remains of the Templar. 

"Perhaps Mother Giselle will be able to tell us what happened," Luka says, his voice calm and soothing. "There is no point in losing ourselves to anger. We must find our brothers."

Lumen nods her assent and allows Luka to lead the search for Mother Giselle. _I'm not asking for a lot. I just want five minutes to throw a pity-party for myself. But I can't even have that. Thedas sucks._

* * *

They find Mother Giselle kneeling in the mud, comforting a wounded man. Her robes set her apart from the crowd. Lumen has come to recognize the frumpy robes the priests and priestesses favor. Although she cannot recall a time when she saw a Chantry mother covered in mud, blood, and Sithis knows what else, but Lumen can respect a woman who’s not afraid to get her hands dirty. 

Mother Giselle gives her an assessing look. “You must be the one they are calling the Herald of Andraste.”

“That's what they are calling me,” she says, trying not to sound too irritable about it. “I was told you wished to speak to me— and I’ve been lead to believe you have news of my friends. I'm looking for two men. They wouldn't speak the local language."

“The foreigners,” she says, smiling pleasantly. “They have been a great help to us. But I’m afraid they left this morning. The mages and Templars brought their fight to the crossroads once again, and your men chased after them when they retreated. I believe they went toward Witchwood— just northeast of here.”

 _Right. Witchwood. That sounds ominous._ "Thank you, Mother Giselle," Lumen says, struggling to mind her manners when all she wants to do is find her brothers. "What did you wish to speak to me about?"

"I only wished to meet the woman I had heard so much about, and to offer my support."

"Really? I thought the Chantry denounced the Inquisition."

"They have, and I am familiar with those behind it. Some are grasping for power, hoping to become the next Divine. Others are simply terrified."

“And what about you?” Lumen asks. “What do you hope to gain by reaching out to us? Do you not stand with your Chantry?”

“I hope for peace, Herald, and I wish to offer some advice; you should go to Val Royeaux and speak with those who oppose you. Let them see that you are not some monster to be feared. They have only heard stories about you, and each new tale is more frightful than the last.”

“You want me to appeal to them," she says, struggling not to laugh. "To make them doubt what they’ve been told.”

Mother Giselle smiles softly. “In so many words, yes. I don’t know if you’ve been touched by fate or— something else. I don’t know what kind of woman you are.” She tilts her head, taking in Lumen’s appearance. “You are different. You will stand out, and that will not always be a good thing. But you can use it to your advantage. You have the potential to build the Inquisition into a force that will save us all— or destroy us.”

 _No pressure, then._ “Don’t worry, Mother Giselle. I know a thing or two about saving worlds,” she says, not bothering to add that there’s a whole lot of winging-it and very little planning involved. “Thank you for the news of my missing men— and for your advice. I’ll speak to these Chantry officials, but only after I find my friends.”

“I wish you luck, Herald.” The woman inclines her head, and steps away, presumably to return to the grueling task of seeing to the wounded— of which, there are many.

“I need more than luck,” Lumen mutters under her breath. She takes her time in returning to her companions. The task of saving yet another world is daunting. It would be easy if someone could point her toward the one responsible for the madness. She’d rather be a weapon than whatever it is Mother Giselle, Cassandra, and the people of Haven want her to be. Appealing to Chantry bureaucrats and bootlickers certainly holds no appeal to her. 

Varric’s smile fades when he sees the look on her face. “Bad news?”

“Yes and no. Mother Giselle says my missing men headed northeast of here. Somewhere called Witchwood." Lumen rubs the back of her neck, fingers working at a knot that has been steadily forming all day. “And she wants me to go to Val Royeaux and meet with the Chantry officials who are rallying against us. I should warn you all now— diplomacy has never been one of my strengths. I'm better at hitting people until they agree with me.”

“Then you are in good company.” Cassandra’s smile doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “Come. Witchwood is not far from here.”

The Seeker takes the lead, followed by Solas. Lumen and Luka remain a few steps behind for privacy’s sake, and Varric walks behind them only because he has to walk twice as fast to keep pace with the long-legged humans and elves.

“I’m proud of you, Miss Lumen,” Luka says, his voice barely above a whisper.

“What are you on about?”

“I know a Shout when I hear one. I’m proud of you. I know you were afraid of doing so considering what happened the last time you Shouted. But you conquered that fear when you thought our brother's lives were in danger.”

“I overcame fear with fear.” Lumen snorts.

Perhaps it was stupid to think her Voice is what got them trapped in a realm of Oblivion, but it was the only theory she had to go on until quite recently. Now she is back to not having a theory at all. Which is fine. She’s tired of speculating. 

“One must learn to take their victories when they can, Herald,” Solas says without looking back. “Though I do not understand why anyone would congratulate you on shouting.”

Lumen glares at the back of Solas’ head. Her first instinct is to tell him to mind his own damn business— especially since he doesn’t understand the context of the conversation. But that would raise questions that Lumen is not of a mind to answer. “Back home, I’m renowned for my Shouting abilities.”

“I see.”

“It’s true,” she says, smirking. “My Shouts are so powerful, in fact, I can disarm enemies and bring down dragons with a few words.” 

It isn’t a lie. But to Solas, it sounds like pure nugshit. Lumen and Luka share a secret smile when he elects not to respond.

“Well,” Varric begins, amusement thick in his voice. “It’s not the most ridiculous boast I’ve ever heard, but it’s up there. Your delivery was good. You sounded like you really believed it. That counts for a lot when you’re telling a lie.”

Cassandra scoffs. “You would know, Varric.”

They’ll discover the truth eventually. Lumen knows there will come a time when she needs to use her Voice to turn a battle in their favor. She will answer all their annoying questions then, but not yet. Not until her family is reunited.

A copse of gnarled, ancient trees comes into view. “Witchwood, I presume.” Lumen looks to Cassandra for confirmation, and the Seeker nods. Her heart drops into her stomach. The forest is the physical embodiment of every “evil haunted forest” that appears in children’s tales. There are undoubtedly witches within, hence the name, but she wouldn’t be surprised to encounter a giant spider or two. Or a tiny spider. Any kind of spider.

Lumen takes a steadying breath and steps into the forest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter didn't want to be written. It was like trying to wrestle a lion... that had already eaten me. 
> 
> Sorry for any typos. I gave the chapter a once-over, but I wouldn't be surprised if I missed something.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Italicized dialogue _“like this”_ denotes the speaker is speaking in Tamrielic.

Witchwood is silent and cold.

A battle happened recently— between someone and a group of mages with a penchant for ice magic. The air hisses with steam rising from pillars of ice, and it smells of loam and rotting things. Trees, thick and ancient, reach toward the sky, their branches forming a latticework of shadows across the forest floor.

Solas’ feet are cat-soft as he walks across moss and stone, his breath curling in front of him. He stops to inspect the wounds on the fallen mages; a clean cut to the throat, a stab to the heart. This is not the work of Templars. It’s too neat. It appears to be the work of an assassin, but not two feet away a mage has been ripped in half. _That_ is not the work of an assassin — or a human — and yet Lumen and Luka don’t spare the mutilated body a second glance.

Varric shakes his head as he walks past what’s left of the mage. “Poor bastard.”

Ahead of them, Cassandra keeps an eye trained on Luka as he casts a spell. A luminescent smoke forms in the mage’s cupped hands. He spreads his fingers, allowing the smoke to pour onto the ground and snake a path into the forest.

A muscle twitches in Cassandra’s jaw. “What is the purpose of this spell?”

“It’s a clairvoyance spell. I— I’m not very good at them,” he sheepishly admits. “But I hope it will give us a path to follow.”

Solas would love to tell him how _astounding_ such a spell truly is. He has not seen anyone wield anything of the sort since the days of Arlathan. Anger swells in his chest to see a _human_ call forth such magic. But he takes a breath, and his anger pulls away like the tide reeling from the shore. Now is not the time.

“I sense magical energies ahead,” Solas says. “If your friends chased the mages into this forest, it would seem your spell is leading us in the right direction.”

“Oh, good.” Luka smiles, but he keeps his head down, and he does not meet anyone’s gaze, save for Lumen’s. The only approval he desires is hers.

Lumen takes the lead, following the path the spell cut through the woods. Luka walks beside her, and Solas is a few steps behind them. Varric and Cassandra are quiet as they make their way through the shadowy forest, but Lumen and Luka are engaged in a hushed conversation— one Solas can hear, thanks to his elven ears.

“Be wary if Arnbjorn has shifted,” Lumen murmurs. “If the corpses of those mages are anything to judge by— I’d say he has.”

“Wouldn’t he recognize us?” Luka asks, his voice tight with unhidden anxiety.

“Maybe. Maybe not. He may not be able to control his curse. This isn’t Nirn. The moons are wrong, and our gods are too far away. But, looking at the corpses, I’d say he and Cicero are fighting together, so that’s a good sign. Still, we should be on our guard.”

Luka nods. “I understand, Listener.”

 _Listener._ A strange title if there ever was one, and he is so careful not to use it within earshot of the others. Solas wonders what it could mean.

Lumen stands up straight, her long ears twitching. “There’s a battle ahead,” she says to the group. “A dozen men, at least. Keep your voices down and follow my lead. There are more of them than us, and we’ll have a better chance of success if we attack from the shadows.”

“Everyone be still a moment,” Luka says lowly, his voice taking on a rare edge. His hands sign the silent commands of a spell, the movements smooth and flowing— and so very foreign. Mages of Thedas are rarely so _flashy_ when casting with their hands. But this strange mage from another place and time casts openly and confidently. He casts like someone who's never felt a day of shame for his gift in all his life.

Static tingles upon Solas’ skin, but it is Cassandra who asks, “What is this?” Her voice, although nearby, is dampened, as if they are speaking in a small room, not a vast forest.

“A muffle spell,” Luka answers her. “They won’t hear us approach.”

Lumen and Luka do not need magic to aid them. They move silently, and they kill efficiently. He follows her lead, and she listens to his concerns. They are a team, fighting, moving, and working in unison. The elf and her mage are a formidable pair. But how will things change when they find their missing companions? They must be a devastating force to encounter. Solas almost pities anyone foolish enough to cross their path. _Almost._

The clamor of battle reaches them. Spells thunder through the air as mages and Templars fight to the death in the midst of a once quiet forest. Tremors echo through the Veil as spirits press close on the other side, watching. Waiting.

Lumen crouches low and peers around the trunk of an old oak. “Get ready.”

At her signal, they leap into the fray.

Solas throws a barrier around himself before calling fire from the Fade and turning it against a nearby mage. His opponent is a circle mage, unaccustomed to fighting, and he is dead before he hits the ground.

Varric fires bolts at the weak points in the Templar’s armor. This tactic gives Cassandra and Lumen an extra edge when they face-off against the heavily armored warriors.

Lumen moves through the crush of bodies like a deadly shadow, cutting down Templars and rebel mages alike. The Templars don’t bat an eye at the newcomers. They are content to kill them along with the rebel mages. The mages, however, are inexperienced. They hesitate when they see Lumen approach — an elf couldn't possibly align with the Templars — but it is a fatal mistake.

A nearby Templar purges the area of ambient magic, and Solas’ barrier gutters like a flame caught in an errant breeze. But his magic is not so easily banished, and his barrier holds.

Luka appears at his side. “Help me with this Templar, will you?”

Solas glances at the mage— his brow is furrowed in concentration, and a bead of sweat trickles down his cheek. “Are you injured?”

“No,” he grits out. “I’m testing a theory.”

“You’re— what?”

“Commander Cullen explained Templar abilities to me. He said they cut off access to the Fade by reinforcing their reality. But his reality isn’t mine. This world is not _my_ world. In my world, magic is in everything. In everyone. It’s as natural as breathing. I don’t care that it’s not the same here. It should be. A world without magic is dry and dead.”

Solas casts a wall of ice in front of the Templar to buy them time. “This is not an ideal time to engage in a battle of wills,” he says. “Perhaps later—”

“You can cast _because_ of my will,” Luka says, his voice wavering from exertion. “Now hurry up and kill him!”

The Templar bursts through the wall of ice, his sword raised and his teeth bared in a snarl. But a wave of Solas’ staff calls forth lightning from the heavens, and it crashes into the Templar. Tendrils of electricity crawl across his armor as the current arcs through his body, burning him from the inside out. The Templar doesn’t have time to scream as he dissolves into a pile of scorched armor and splintered shards of bone.

“Nicely done,” Luka says, smiling at the carnage.

“Thank you.” Solas rests his staff against his shoulder. “The spell wouldn’t have been nearly as strong had you not been counteracting the Templar’s abilities.” He would’ve been able to cast regardless. While he is a shadow of his former self, he is still stronger than the average mage. However, he didn’t expect to call on his magic with such ease, and he poured more power into the spell than he intended. But Luka doesn’t need to know that.

Luka and Solas make their way through the forest clearing, stepping over the bodies littering the ground. The fighting has stopped for now. But they will undoubtedly encounter more Templars and mages as they move deeper into the forest.

It doesn’t take them long to find the rest of their small group. The Seeker is cleaning blood and gore from her blade, deliberately ignoring the fact that Varric and Lumen are looting the bodies of the fallen. Luka breaks away from Solas and immediately moves to Lumen’s side.

“I expected to find more elves among the mages,” Varric says to none of them in particular. “The Templars were always sniffing around the alienage in Kirkwall. I suspect it’s the same in other cities. I saw too many elves go to the Circle— but where are they now?”

“Perhaps they wished to join Dalish clans rather than fight with the rebels,” Cassandra suggests.

“Something tells me the elves raised in a Circle wouldn’t last in the wilds for very long,” Varric murmurs. “Would they even know how to find a clan?”

Cassandra heaves a sigh as she sheathes her blade. “What does it matter, Varric?”

“I guess it doesn’t. It’s just strange.”

It _is_ strange. Solas will grant him that. “The rebel mages were granted sanctuary in Redcliffe, yes? Perhaps the elven mages are there.”

“I suppose they didn’t want to get involved in another stupid human mess.” Varric frowns as he looks around at the bodies of the fallen. “Can’t say I blame them.”

A pulse ripples through the Fade. “Mages ahead,” Solas says. “Be ready.”

* * *

Witchwood is drenched in the shadows of a violet eventide. The creeping darkness fills Lumen with a sense of urgency. While she is accustomed to working in the dark, she does not know this forest, and the mages will have the advantage by nightfall.

The sounds of battle draw the group of unlikely companions deeper into the forest. The wood is filled with the hiss of spells and the screams of battle. But the shouts morph from angry to panicked when a mage falls in a spray of blood; his screams cut off by a piercing howl.

That is not the howl of a normal wolf.

A giant, white wolf rips through the crowd, scattering blood and viscera across the forest floor. Templars turn their swords on the rampaging animal, determined to fight. But they do not know how to fight a beast with the intelligence of a man— and the skills of an assassin. He is quick and fierce, and the Templars don’t stand a chance. The mages try to run, but as Lumen learned long ago, it is not wise to run from one of Hircine’s wolves. A hunter cannot resist the allure of fleeing prey.

Nearby, a man cries out in terror— and his screams are met by a familiar, maniacal cackle.

Lumen hadn’t let herself imagine the moment when her family would be whole again. Just knowing Cicero and Arnbjorn are nearby is enough to give her a second wind. “Stay near us,” she tells the others. “Cicero and Arnbjorn won’t know you from the rogue mages and Templars, and I don’t want to risk them attacking you— or you attacking them.”

“Do they require assistance?” Cassandra squints her eyes, trying to make out friend from foe in the dark forest.

“My friends can handle themselves.”

“You know, I can deal with the screaming. But the laughing is— disconcerting.” Varric’s crossbow is lowered, but his finger remains on the trigger. “Are you sure these are your friends?”

“Yes, I’m sure.”

“I can’t see anything,” Luka complains. “May I cast magelight, Miss Lumen? There’s no reason to skulk in the shadows, is there?”

“I was afraid doing so might draw enemies our way but—” A scream of terror fades into a wet, bubbling gasp, followed by a tell-tale crunch of bone. “—I think Cicero and Arnbjorn are taking care of them for us. So go ahead.”

A spell flares in Luka’s hands, bathing the area in a wash of bright, crystalline light. He guides the orbs into the branches above them. Solas looks up at the magical lights twinkling in the trees, a sad, _almost_ smile playing on his lips. Varric comments on the usefulness of such a spell, while Cassandra expresses her concern at being lit up like a beacon.

Lumen pays them little mind. The fighting has stopped, but she cannot see outside the ring of light. The shadows beyond have grown more stark in contrast to the brilliant magelights. She would listen for the sound of approaching footsteps if she could. But the muffle spells placed on Cicero’s boots make finding him by sound alone impossible.

“Cicero?”

_“Listener?”_

Lumen’s heart nearly stops at the sound of his voice. Cicero emerges from the shadows of the forest, his motley stained and torn, but he is healthy and whole. A familiar, crooked smile curls his mouth as his dark eyes meet hers.

His laugh is wild and unhinged. _“Listener!”_ he shrieks, and then tackles her.

In a normal circumstance, she would be annoyed by such a greeting. As it is, this is no normal circumstance, and she is grateful for the weight of his arms around her shoulders and his legs around her waist. Her composure was close to shattering. So trying to stay upright with a wiggling armful of _Cicero_ is a welcome distraction from her overwhelming emotions.

 _“Oh, Listener! You’re alive and well, and just as beautiful as Cicero remembers!”_ He peppers her face with kisses as he babbles, not letting her get a word in edgewise. _“Cicero has missed you so much! Arnbjorn is not terrible company, but he has been more wolf than man and Cicero has never liked dogs because dogs do not like poor Cicero and he has been ever so lonely!”_

Varric laughs. “I take it you two know each other?”

The sound of a stranger's voice snaps Cicero out of it, and he releases Lumen. _“Who are your friends, sweet Listener?”_ A subtle threat laces through his voice. It is a dangerous question.

 _“Introductions will be made easier if we can understand each other,”_ Luka says, slipping into Tamrielic. _“We have a potion that will help with tha—”_

 _“Brother!”_ Cicero pounces on Luka, knocking the skinny mage to the ground with the force of his enthusiastic greeting. _“Oh, Cicero missed you as well! He will have to thank you profusely for keeping his sweet Lumen safe! Yes, he will!”_

Luka yelps as his legs give out, and he crumples to the mossy, forest floor with Cicero on top of him. “Cicero,” he wheezes. _“You're— heavy.”_

 _“What?”_ Cicero gasps, feigning insult. _“Cicero is not! He is lithe and light! He is— ack!”_

Arnbjorn, now transformed and clothed, grabs Cicero by his collar and pulls him from Luka. But— he doesn’t look good. There are dark circles under his eyes, and his nails are still tapered into sharp tips, as if he is on the cusp of another transformation. _“What’s this about a potion?”_ he growls, keeping a wary eye trained on Cassandra— who has her hand resting on the pommel of her sword.

Luka knows better than to test him when he’s in such a state, and he hands Arnbjorn and Cicero each a vial of thick, crimson liquid. _“Solas and I mixed these up before we left Haven. I’m not sure about the half-life of the potion or the spell used to ferment it, but they should still work. If not, we’ll make more.”_

Arnbjorn isn’t listening (and that’s assuming he ever was in the first place.) He swallows the contents of the vial with a grimace. The Nord isn’t the slightest bit mystified that he can understand another language with little to no effort. Cicero, however, choked the potion down and immediately began sounding out his favorite words.

“Exsanguination. Dismemberment. Asphyxia. Decapitation. Emasculation. Evisceration…”

“Someone needs to explain what’s going on,” Arnbjorn says, his voice deceptively calm. “Now.”

“We should head back to camp. You have injuries that need tending, and we have all earned a rest." Cassandra speaks in a tone brooks no argument. “In the meantime, Lumen can fill you in on all the details. She is better equipped to tell this story than I.”

“I’m not sure where to begin,” Lumen admits. She’s only been here a short time, but so much has happened. It feels like a lifetime. “What’s the last thing you remember? From before?”

“I remember _you_ doing something idiotic,” Arnbjorn snaps. “And then I was stuck in a swamp with your toy jester.”

Lumen winces. “I guess I’ll start from the beginning, then…”

* * *

They reach the camp just as Lumen wraps up her tale. She began with what happened right _after_ her epic fuck-up in Winterhold (no need to dwell on the past) and finished with finding Arnbjorn and Cicero in Witchwood. Cicero has shown remarkable self-control for someone who's bursting with curiosity. He managed to remain quiet throughout Lumen's tale— which is a small miracle for a man who holds full conversations with himself.

“May I speak now?”

“Go ahead.”

“Let Cicero get this straight. Someone — a very powerful someone — ripped a hole in Oblivion and that is how we all ended up here?”

Lumen shrugs. “Basically.”

“And this someone is the reason you have a key to Oblivion on your hand?”

“Seems like it.”

“Great!” He claps his hands together. “You can use your magical Oblivion-key to open a portal and send us home! No need to linger here. This world’s problems are not Cicero’s problems. We should go. Soon. Today. Right now. ”

“It’s not that simple.” She runs a hand through her hair, frustrated with her very existence. “The person who caused the Breach tried to kill me! I’m not going to let that stand!”

“Sweet Lumen. Now is not the time to coddle your wounded pride.”

“It’s not about pride!” she shouts, not caring that she has an audience. At least Cassandra had the good sense to send the scouts and soldiers away when they began watching the group with unhidden interest. “The Breach in this world caused the Rifts in our world! Even if I could get us home, it would still affect us! At least here I can do something about it!”

“Why?” Cicero growls, deadly serious. The guise of the jester has fallen away, revealing the real, very concerned man beneath. “How many times can you be expected to do this? Is it not enough that you saved our world? Why do you have to save this one, too?”

“What is he talking about?” Cassandra asks.

“Nothing,” Lumen snaps, glaring at Cicero. “He's just dramatic.”

“Cicero is never dramatic!” he shouts, waving his hands in the air. “He is traumatized! He’s been lost in a strange land full of monsters and mad mages, and he had no way of knowing if his sweet Lumen was alive and well! He— _I_ have only just found you, and now I find out that you have been—” He takes a breath, struggling with his words in the wake of his anger. “— _branded_ by someone who is powerful enough to rend a hole between our worlds, and you wish to meet him in battle?”

There’s so much she wants to say. She wants to comfort her loyal Keeper who remained by her side through so many trials. But rather than complicate matters with feelings, she merely says, “yes.”

“Of _course_ you do,” he says, utterly exasperated. “And people say Cicero is the crazy one.”

Arnbjorn growls. “If you don’t shut up, I swear to Sithis, I’ll—” He clutches at his stomach and groans. “Damn it.”

“Do you have further injuries?” Solas asks.

“No. I—” Arnbjorn settles on a log near the campfire, and looks to his Listener for guidance. “There’s no way around this, is there?”

Arnbjorn’s condition isn’t a big secret. But Lumen isn’t certain how her new companions will take the news. Still, it’s better than admitting they’re all members of a corpse-worshipping death-cult. So there’s that. “Arnbjorn is a werewolf,” she explains. “Back home, his lycanthropy is a blessing. The lunar cycle does affect it. But he can control it and use it to his advantage. _Here_ , though...” He words trail off as she looks up into the light of a full moon.

Solas follows her gaze. “Fascinating.”

“I’m glad you’re enjoying yourself,” Arnbjorn snaps.

Cassandra’s hand twitches instinctively closer to her sword, but she does not grasp it. “I have heard tales of werewolves. Leliana and Warden Tabris encountered a pack of werewolves during the Blight. The story Leliana told me does not favor your kind. She said many were mindless beasts. But there were a few who still retained their humanity.”

“I am still myself when I am the wolf. I am a danger to our enemies and no one else.” Arnbjorn considers Cassandra for a moment. Ever the pragmatist, he adds, “If you wish to lock me up during the full moon, I will not object. I know myself. I can control my urges. But I would rather not test my limits, either.”

The frown eases from Cassandra’s brow. “Thank you,” she says. “I will inform Commander Cullen and Leliana of your condition when we return to Haven. It would be wise to not speak of this within earshot of the scouts or soldiers. We are fighting enough rumors as it is.”

Cicero’s lips curl into a malicious grin. “You just need to keep a chart so you know when your moonsies will happen.”

“What are you babbling about?”

“Instead of menses, it’s moonsies!” Cicero sits down beside him. “Get it?”

Arnbjorn’s jaw tightens. “I hate you.”

“That is a wise suggestion,” Solas says, nodding to Cicero. “When we return to Haven I can provide a chart of the lunar cycle. That way you will know when the change is approaching and you won’t be caught unawares.”

“Thanks.” Arnbjorn never takes his eyes off of Solas, even as he elbows Cicero in the chest and knocks him off the log— which sends Cicero into a fit of laughter.

“You’re human now,” Lumen says, ignoring the cackling Keeper. “Any idea why?”

“No idea. Probably because I’ve been hunting all day. But I can’t be certain.”

“This doesn’t make sense,” Luka says as he begins to pace. “You were able to control your transformations just fine in Sovngarde. But why not here? The fact that you’re in a different realm shouldn’t matter! If Hircine’s influence could reach you in Sovngarde, then it stands to reason that it could reach you anywhere—” he gasps. “It’s the Veil! It’s like a dam. It blocks the flow of magic, and therefore it’s blocking Hircine!”

“Great. What is it and how do we get rid of it?”

“Get _rid_ of it?” Cassandra hisses between her teeth. “The Veil is a barrier between this world and the world of demons—”

“Seeker, that is a gross oversimplification,” Solas snaps, cutting her off. “And quite _wrong_ —”

Solas and Cassandra begin bickering about what sounds like complete nonsense to Lumen’s ears. Varric excuses himself, claiming he’s heard more about the Fade than he can stand, and disappears inside his tent.

“Just so you know, a madman blew up a temple, killing hundreds in the process, just to punch a hole in the Veil,” Lumen explains. “It’s a sensitive subject.”

“I see.” Arnbjorn doesn’t look the least bit contrite. “I didn’t say it before, but it’s good to see you, tidbit. Although, I wish you hadn’t fallen headfirst into trouble. We were apart for— what? A week? And you end up with some magical bullshit stuck to your hand.”

“I didn’t mean for this to happen,” she says softly, almost absentmindedly, as she looks at the palm of her hand. There is no magic thrashing beneath her skin. The mark is quiet. Thanks, in part, to calming the Breach, and to Solas’ intrinsic knowledge of all things weird and magical. But there is an ever-present vibration beneath her skin that reminds her of what lies within. “I know you all wish to return home.” The words come easier now. Louder. Her brothers are with her, and the Listener must guide them. “But the creature that created the Breach is a danger to this world, and others. Namely, our own. I will do all I can to protect our world— our _Brotherhood_ and our _Mother_. So we’re going to stay. We’re going to seal the Breach and kill whoever caused it. After that, we can find our way home.”

“I told you long ago that I would follow you anywhere,” Arnbjorn says, the hard edges of his face growing softer. “That has not changed.”

Cicero heaves a long-suffering sigh, but despite his general annoyance with their current situation, he smiles all the same. “Even though you have caused poor Cicero no small amount of worry, and he has new wrinkles _and_ gray hairs thanks to you, he will remain by your side. Always and forever.”

“Well—” Lumen swallows around the lump in her throat. She turns her attention to Luka because she’s fairly certain she’ll start bawling if she keeps looking at Cicero and Arnbjorn. They are loyal. She’s always known this. But knowing it and _hearing_ it are two different things. “What do you think, Luka?”

“To be honest, I am enjoying this.” A wry smile tugs at his lips. “This is the weirdest thing that’s ever happened to me. Sort of. It’s definitely at the top. Maybe it’s the second weirdest thing.”

“We are in another world, and you’re saying this is the _second_ weirdest thing that’s ever happened?” Lumen asks, intrigued.

“It’s not like we haven’t done this before, Miss Lumen. So, yes, it’s the second weirdest thing. It’s almost as weird as that time Onmund and I summoned a Dremora for— well— I probably shouldn’t tell you about the strange things we got up to in my time at the College. But know that it was an exciting, albeit strange, night.”

“Cicero wants details.”

“Arnbjorn does _not._ ”

Luka coughs and looks to Lumen for help.

“I don’t know about you, but I’m exhausted.” Lumen looks over her shoulder, noting that Solas and Cassandra are still discussing the Veil— although the conversation looks friendlier than it did when it began. “We should retire for the evening,” she says, grabbing their attention. “We’ll set out at first light and make contact with the horse master. I don’t imagine Mother Giselle wants to travel to Haven on foot.”

“Of course, Herald.” If Cassandra is surprised at Lumen’s sudden interest in taking the lead, she doesn’t let it show. “I’ll take first watch.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my goodness. Juggling this many characters was a bit of a chore. But the gang's back together! 
> 
> Obviously, I am toying with the lore a little bit here and there, and so things won’t be perfectly aligned with how it is in the games. But this is a crossover so it’s allowed. XD I’m going with the idea that Thedas is simply another realm, much like The Hunting Grounds, the Deadlands, or Sovngarde. But Thedas is different because of the Veil, which creates issues for the magically cursed/gifted. Oops! 
> 
> The lore states Thedas has two moons, but we only ever see one moon in the game and it is HUGE. So my headcanon is that it’s a binary planet system. Two planets that orbit each other, and perhaps the second moon is a small satellite that isn’t easy to see thanks to the light of the other planet/moon. :) 
> 
> Thank you so much to those of you who have commented, kudosed or bookmarked this fic! I've never done a crossover before, but since Dragon Age and Skyrim are my favorite games... I had to? But it warms my heart that people are interested in this story. So thank you! :)


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